Amor Delirus
by VoodooChild3000
Summary: Started as a prompt on the ST:XI kink meme. Spock/Uhura, one-sided Nero/Uhura, one-sided Ayel/Nero. You don't have to love madness for it to love you...or insane Romulans. In the end, Uhura has to stand or fall, and Spock must be there to catch her.
1. Part I: Beginnings

A/N: I finally had to break down and get an account. I got the prompt from the ST XI kink meme, and it's taking on a life of its own. This is my first Star Trek fic and one of the first fics I've ever posted online anywhere, so be gentle. This is rated M for a reason, too--it's not terribly explicit, but there is some dark and messed-up content in here. Non-con, murder, Stockholm Syndrome, and all sorts of other psychological fuckery abound, though things do eventually get better for everyone.

----

The Narada was a little warm for humans.

Like Vulcans, Romulan body temperature ran significantly higher than in humans, and they were more at home in heat than anything else. What human crew had been brought over from the Enterprise were sweltering in their seats on the plate-metal floor of the cargo bay.

Only Spock remained unaffected by it, but he'd been hit with so much else that it didn't matter. Logic dictated he cooperate, that he rein in his rapidly mounting rage--he'd tried all his life to abide by logic, but it was rapidly failing him now. He'd handled it when they'd been captured, had even dealt with a decent beating without losing it, but now--now it wasn't himself his rage would hurt.

The bastard had Nyota.

How Nero had _known _about him and Nyota, Spock didn't know; so far as he was aware, even Captain Pike hadn't known. Romulans were not telepaths--there shouldn't have been any way for them to figure out what would hit him hardest. What--who--was next in line of the places and people he loved best.

He glanced at Kirk, slumped half-conscious on the floor. The kid was brave, if positively suicidal. He'd pitched the mother of all fits when the Romulans had boarded--had tried to take them on hand-to-hand when they broke his phaser, despite the fact that even one of them far outmatched him physically--and while they hadn't killed him, Spock had little doubt he'd come to wish they had. Unless something could be done first. If only the idiotic little hothead had shown some restraint--Spock could have used his help, whenever the opportunity presented itself.

Before he could think on it more, another Romulan arrived, and dragged him off deeper into the bowels of the ship. Kirk watched him go with bloodshot, unfocused eyes.

----

This happy little space had not, of course, been part of the Narada's original design. Mining ships, even Romulan ones, didn't usually have much use for interrogation rooms, much less the sort of torture chamber Nero had devised out of frustrated boredom. He was beginning to live up to the Earth emperor who had shared his name, and even he knew it--but it didn't matter. Revenge was revenge; he'd accepted long ago there could be nothing afterward.

Dear Captain Christopher had been bundled off to an improvised cell in an improvised brig, to stew and let that slug do its work on his brain stem. That pretty Nyota of Spock's had taken his place on the table, restrained but for now still fully conscious. That might change, depending on Nero's mood.

She was watching him now, huge black eyes in a face that struggled to remain serene. She was trying hard, he could tell, but she was only a cadet--the training given to soldiers to handle captivity wasn't fully ingrained yet. He couldn't fault her for being terrified; in a way he pitied her. What he was going to do to her was not her fault--her only fault was her association with Spock.

He half-sat on the edge of the table, staring down at her. Beautiful woman, though nothing like his wife--his wife had been fair, her long hair light and curly, whereas Nyota was smooth coffee, her eyes twin pools of liquid darkness. What he was about to do to her was a thing he would not normally allow; his crew knew better than to offer assault to its own female members or those of the Enterprise, but a point had to be made.

"I won't kill you," he said, running a thumb over her smooth forehead. "I probably should, but I won't."

She still looked up at him, wary, defiant, angry--but afraid. Not for herself--not much, at least--but for Spock.

Spock.

"Hi, Spock."

Nero's eyes flicked up as they entered--Spock and his pair of guards. Green bruises were forming all over the Vulcan's face, green blood trailing from a spectacular split lip. The sight made Nero smile with incongruous, ominous cheer. "Good, we're all here. Now, Nyota, I'm sorry to put you through this, but Spock here needs to learn a few things, and you're my teaching assistant. Sit down, Spock."

Spock and Uhura's eyes met, and before his escorts could move he'd kicked one, punched the other, and fought his way through the dark warm water--

--only to have Nero crack him hard upside the head with the butt of a phaser rifle.

"I said _sit down_, Spock," he said, the affability gone from his voice. The guards, furious as well as embarrassed, tried to grab Spock even as Uhura struggled to free her hands, cursing in an astonishing variety of languages. She had a pretty voice, Nero thought, low and smoky and just now quite hoarse. Oh, she was furious too, now, which was unfortunate, but at least she wasn't going anywhere.

Nor was Spock, once they'd got him situated--restrained himself, though in a chair, giving him a convenient view. Once assured he wasn't going to be able to interfere, the guards vanished, leaving the three very much alone. Spock, his eyes full of very un-Vulcan rage; Uhura, a seething confusion of anger and fear and anguish--and Nero, impresario of this little show.

"Well, now that _that's_ been settled, I want you to pay attention, Spock." He set the gun aside, and took up instead a very long knife--curved, utilitarian, glinting sharp in the harsh white light. A glance at Spock, who had gone quite still, and at Uhura, whose eyes were locked on the blade. "You see, I had a wife, once, as pretty as Nyota here."

Water rippled around his boots as he returned to the table, again sitting beside her. "And I lost her, because of you," he went on, but his tone was less conversational now. The knife was _very_ sharp, and he couldn't afford to nick that coffee skin as, with exquisite care, he sliced the red fabric of that ridiculous Starfleet uniform. The steel had to be cold, he thought, but at least he wouldn't cut her…yet. Nero could feel her heartbeat flutter under his fingers as he worked--that's right, the human heart was in the chest, wasn't it? He didn't know enough about human physiology to risk too much damage; the last thing he needed was to kill her accidentally.

So cool, Nyota's skin, much cooler than his wife's. When he bent his head he caught a whiff of soap, light floral shampoo, and some faint, musky perfume that had mingled with the natural scent of her skin, and a bolt of desire that had nothing to do with his 'lesson' shot through him. No, Nyota wasn't his wife, but she was beautiful, and alive, and so very fragile.

And frozen. The knife continued down her abdomen, tickling as it sliced through her bra, the bunched red of her skirt. He could tell she wanted to fight, but was bright enough not to do so while something so sharp was so near. The flutter of her pulse increased beneath his palm, and did not slow when he made short work of the rest of her uniform. Her hands were bound over her head, but a little creative knife-work got rid of all that clothing.

"She was beautiful," Nero said again, hoarsely, and when Uhura tried to turn her face away he caught her chin and forced her to look at him. Lightly, very lightly, he drew the flat edge of the blade along her jaw, almost a caress. That did make her flinch, though she fought hard not to, and when he shut his eyes and buried his face in the soft dark fall of her hair, she lost her battle against a shudder.

----

Starfleet was realist enough to know there was always a chance its people might be taken prisoner, and that things of a specific nature might be done to those prisoners. Uhura had known it, too, objectively, but had not ever really thought she'd need the psychological training, the tricks they taught to handle anything like this. It was almost impossible to keep anything like equanimity when hot hands and cold steel traveled over her, ridding her of her uniform and leaving her more vulnerable than she had ever been. Uhura was not a vulnerable sort of woman; intelligent, self-assured, strong, but not vulnerable and certainly not like this. Despite the heat of the room she was shivering--part horror, part fear, and part humiliation. And Nero's eyes held her like a pair of black holes as the knife trailed over her face. She couldn't look at Spock--couldn't let herself even think that he was here, that he had to witness this.

She shut her eyes and flinched when Nero leaned down to breathe in the scent of her hair, and the knife trailed down her side--God, was he paying attention anymore? Would he stab her by chance, if not on purpose? An experimental tug of the strap at her wrists proved fruitless; nothing manufactured by Romulans would be broken by a human. If Spock couldn't break free of his, she didn't have a chance.

Another shudder, and Uhura tried to regain control of her breathing, her heartbeat. They'd taught all the cadets controls, breathing exercises, things meant to take the mind away from the body, but none of them were working. And they _really_ quit working when he crept over her, resting most of his weight on one hand beside her head--she could feel his body heat even through all the layers of his clothing, hitting her like a furnace. Though his weight wasn't rested on her, she could still feel it--like Vulcans, Romulans had a denser body mass to go with that ungodly strength. Nero probably weight at least twice what a human his size would, and the effect was enough to suffocate her.

He'd apparently decided to abandon his verbal lecture in favor of pressing his mouth to her neck, her shoulder, hot breath and icy steel at her side. She bit her lip and shut her eyes, fighting another shudder, and tried not to wish she would die.

----

The last shreds of Spock's careful control had all but deserted him. He retained enough to be silent as he struggled furiously against his restraints, but there was murder in his eyes--eyes that couldn't look away, however much he wanted to.

But Nyota…however hard it was, she was holding fast to a stillness and dignity that was almost Vulcan, enduring as best she could the ultimate indignity one sentient being could inflict on another. Whenever they got out of here--and he had to think 'when', not 'if', however illogical such a thought might be--he was going to tell her what he had never yet said aloud: that he loved her. That she was strong and wonderful and deserved better than him and what he had brought on her.

After, of course, he ripped Nero apart with his bare hands.

Spock might not have the strongest understanding of other species' emotions, but even he could see that for Nero this had gone beyond simple revenge--that he saw Nyota now as more than a pawn, as a means to exact vengeance on an enemy he had made before he'd met. _What_ he saw her as now, Spock couldn't guess, but the fact that he did was far more frightening than him regarding her as a tool and nothing more. The expression on his face before he bent his head to Nyota's neck said it wasn't torment he was after, now. And that was…very much worse. Starfleet conditioned its cadets against torture, but this was something else entirely.

Spock wished he had bonded with her before now. Bonded, he could try to reassure her, to stay in her mind and distract her from what was being done to her body. As it was, they were both on their own, separated by a half-mad Romulan bent on who knew what terrible purpose. Helpless.

----

Romulans might have lost the telepathic abilities of their Vulcan brethren, but Nero didn't need them to realize what he was doing to Nyota. That particular effect had been his original intent, but he didn't wish it now. In that moment he'd all but forgotten Spock, forgotten his reason for doing this to begin with.

He'd never formed any liaisons with any of his female crew. He knew others did--voluntary relationships, and he allowed it because they needed something to keep them sane. But even if he hadn't been the captain, he couldn't bring himself to be unfaithful to his long-dead wife, the woman he still loved after twenty-five years. His crew were his crew, valued, respected but none of them were his wife, and thus there had been little temptation.

Until Nyota.

He hadn't planned to lose his detachment to this extent--it hadn't occurred to him that it would be possible. Unfortunately for everyone, though, he had, and that brought him to do something quite worse than he had intended, or at least intended yet, for this reason.

He drew back, looking down on this amazing woman who still tried to hold still, to deny him the satisfaction of overtly reacting to what she still thought of as torture. Nero hadn't believed a human could be so strong--he'd always thought them soft, weak creatures, but though Nyota was no match for him physically, she had an inner steel he would not have believed possible. And he couldn't bring himself to break that--at least, not in the manner he'd first planned.

So he stood, ostensibly ignoring Spock entirely, and moved near silently to a metal table laid out with as unpleasant a set of instruments as Romulus had ever devised. He passed over most of them in favor of a plain, utilitarian hypospray, filled with a concoction his doctor had cooked up. When he returned to the table he found her staring up at him, and though there was loathing in her eyes there was also, deep behind it, fear. The loathing he could deal with, but not the fear. He didn't want her afraid now.

She did try to flinch away when he caught her chin and turned her head so he could inject the hypospray, but it did its work quickly enough--after scant seconds all the tension drained from her body, leaving her wholly relaxed, her eyes glazed and half-lidded, and with a very strange smile Nero tossed the hypo away.

----

God, it had been hard, so _hard_ to keep still, to avoid betraying her complete revulsion. Uhura hadn't dared look at Spock--hadn't dared look at _anything_ now, no aspect of this terrible prison. Not until Nero stood did she open her eyes, almost involuntarily. Despite the warmth of the room she shivered at the sudden loss of his heat above her, as air that now seemed cool hit her bare skin. She'd tried to ignore the fact that she was completely nude, to block it with everything else, but in that she failed as well.

She still couldn't look at Spock--couldn't look at anything but the array of tools on Nero's table, and wonder with growing horror what he meant to inflict on her now, how long he meant to draw this out. And then he injected her with the hypospray, and she quit wondering anything.

She was still conscious, in a way--still aware, in a dazed fashion, of where she was, and with whom. It was a fuzzy consciousness, though, fading in and out of degrees of clarity, and though she remained aware something terrible was happening, she no longer remembered why she should care. A delicious, lazy warmth infused her to her fingertips, a warmth so hazy and complete she didn't at first realize it when Nero lay above her again, the heat of his now-bare skin mingling with the internal heat that suffused her. When had he undressed, and why was that a bad thing? It _was_ bad, Uhura was sure of it, but she could no longer remember why. And then he touched her, and she forgot why she should try.

It was a feather-light touch along her side, his fingers hot and rough, and she was only half-aware when something perilously like a moan escaped her throat. _God_, she'd never felt anything like that in her life--that simple touch was enough to send a white-hot spike of pure need through her. Her breath caught when his mouth found her neck again, her back arching as he kissed and then bit, still lightly, teeth grazing the hollow beneath her jaw. Quite suddenly she needed to feel more of him, to bring as much of her skin into contact with his as she could, and this time when she struggled to free her hands it wasn't to fight him, but to draw him closer.

Nero didn't free her hands, but his fingers did travel slowly up her arm, twining with hers, as his mouth trailed to her collarbone, her sternum, exploring every inch of dark, intoxicating skin. So soft, unbroken by the scars carried by every Romulan aboard, and cool, much cooler than Romulan. His hand traveled back down her arm, along her neck, skimming her breast, and when he pressed more of his weight onto her she cried out, a hoarse and ragged cry. His lips were on her cheek, her jaw, and then her own, and when he kissed her she parted her lips and kissed him back, hard and hungry. He tasted of…she didn't know what, some spicy liquor utterly foreign to her tongue, and she drank it in greedily, whimpering as his hands traveled over her and left trails of fire in their wake. No, she didn't care now, and didn't care that she didn't care--her whole consciousness was lost in this moment, drowning in aching physical need.

And then his mouth was beside her ear, his voice as hoarse as hers, whispering something in Romulan she was too dazed to decipher. His hand had found its way between her legs, long hot fingers stroking, exploring, and Uhura cried out again as he pulled her so close to the edge without actually letting her fall. Some wordless, begging whimper crossed her lips, and when he buried himself inside her, fingers twisting involuntarily in her hair, his groan almost undid her entirely.

He was slow, at first, if not precisely gentle, but when she moved with him, writhing desperately in an attempt to pull him closer, deeper, he seemed to lose what control he had. He was so hot within her, burning heat she had to have more of, and when he kissed her again she was almost too desperate to kiss him back. There was nothing in the world but her and Nero, the things he was doing and making her feel, and now she was so far gone it didn't seem wrong at all, and when his teeth again closed on her throat she screamed, a ragged cry of something beyond ecstasy. Stars exploded behind her eyes, and she actually greyed out for a moment as pleasure beyond what ought to be humanly possible overloaded her senses. It didn't ebb, but went on and on, and she was hardly aware when his fingers twisted painfully in her hair, his body tensing as he growled inarticulately in her ear. She couldn't breathe, but that wasn't a bad thing; all it did was finish the job and send her into a hazy, ecstatic darkness without thought or awareness.

----

Nero didn't know how long it took him to come back to himself, to regain the thoughts Nyota had so effectively destroyed. He was breathing hard, his fingers still curled in her hair, and for the first time in a quarter of a human century none of those thoughts were of anger, or grief, or revenge.

"I think I'll keep you," he murmured in Romulan, his fingers tracing lazy patterns over that perfect dark skin. No, he couldn't kill her, now--nor could he let her go. He'd deprived Spock of his home world as Spock had deprived him of his--it was only fair it go a step further.

He glanced at Spock--Spock, who he'd all but forgotten. The Vulcan had fought so hard he'd actually broken his arm in his attempt to break free, and the naked mix of rage and grief in his face made Nero smile again, more strangely still.

"Yes," he said again, turning back to Uhura's still, unconscious face. "I think I'll keep you after all."


	2. Part II: Uhura

_I'm really trying to explore more of Uhura's psyche in this, so forgive me how long this section is. PTSD, here we come. :D_

----

When Uhura came back to something like consciousness, she was so disoriented it took her several minutes to even try to work out why she wasn't on the Enterprise anymore. She had several merciful minutes of incomprehension before full memory hit her, and when it had it was all she could do not to literally be sick.

She was…somewhere, now, not that damned room with that damned table and that damned…whatever the hell Nero had injected her with. It had clouded her senses but didn't cloud her memory, and a shudder worked its way from her scalp all the way to her toes. God, he'd really--she'd really--and Spock--

That did it--temporarily shut down all thought, all awareness of anything save her immediate surroundings. A tidy, sparse room, more austere than any of the personal quarters on the Enterprise; those rooms were light, bright, calming. Here the lights along the metal walls were pale green, though slightly warmer illumination came from a tall lamp in a corner. And, yes, she was in a bed, but she wouldn't think about that right now, nor about the fact that she wasn't wearing her uniform, but something that felt like a bathrobe, heavy and surprisingly soft. She wouldn't think about the various painful twinges all over her body, because that would mean she'd have to think about how she'd got them, and--

_INo/I. _She stopped, forced herself to breathe. In for count of four, hold it, out for a count of four, rinse, repeat. Just now there was nothing she could do about her pulse, or even about the shivering that seemed enough to shake her very bones apart. She could shut her eyes, though, and shut her mind, and try not to notice anything until she was even a little more ready to deal with it.

"I didn't think you'd sleep that long."

Uhura jumped, scrambling away on instinct, and cursed her reaction. Hatred, rage, mortification--it was amazing how fast and how hard all three managed to hit her at once. And fear, even now, though that fear was so far behind everything else it almost didn't register. She glared at Nero, and fought an urge to flee, or hit him, or both. Never in all her life had she been this angry, or this horrified--never had she wanted more than to hit someone until they stopped moving. She wasn't a violent person--had always disdained the idea as the recourse of, well, testosterone-driven Neanderthals who couldn't think of any better way to resolve a conflict. Now, though, the need to deliver physical harm--the worse the better--was almost overwhelming, and she couldn't let herself do it. Fleeing any further would only give him a satisfaction she was determined he wouldn't have, and hitting him would just be stupid, however tempting it might be; she knew, now, unfortunately well, just how much stronger than her he was. She had to be calm, or as calm as she could be, and actually _think, _however difficult that was at present.

"Where's Spock?" she asked, and was surprised at how even her voice was. Raspy, almost entirely gone, but even, betraying far less than she'd been afraid it would. Nero was much too close, but she knew if she tried to scoot away he'd just follow her, and he was a Romulan--showing weakness in front of them was not a good idea, however horrible the situation. So Uhura held still, quite still, drawing on the disciplines Spock had taught her as well as her (admittedly somewhat useless) Starfleet training.

Nero's eyes narrowed a moment, rage crossing his face hot and brief as lightning. In the dim light his tattoos looked almost black, etched in sharp contrast to his face, and the upswept curve of his eyebrows seemed almost an affront--what right had Romulans to look so like Vulcans? she thought, a little wildly. Oh, she knew why, of course, but objective knowledge wasn't helping her mental state now. Not much could have, just yet. She couldn't look away from him, either, though no drugs forced her to do anything now; she didn't dare, for fear of what he might do. There _were _worse things he could do to her, though in her present state she was hard-pressed to think of more than one or two. Physical pain would almost be preferable over this all-encompassing shame--though the drug had rendered her completely insensible of her actions, it didn't change the bald blunt fact that he'd raped her and she'd enjoyed it. It wasn't her fault, but try telling that to her mind.

"Always _Spock_," Nero said softly. "He's safe enough. I haven't hurt him, if that's what you're worried about. Much, anyway," he added parenthetically, and Uhura's glare deepened. She was far too aware of his proximity, the unnatural heat of his bare chest--Spock's inhuman body temperature had seemed to her quite normal, something she rarely thought of save for the all-too-few moments they'd managed to snatch alone together, when she'd basked in his warmth like a cat. Nero was…another story entirely. Strange, how what was essentially the same sensation could seem so very different in different contexts, Uhura thought, and then wondered if she was cracking.

"I want to see him," she said, less evenly this time; when he reached out to tuck a tangled strand of hair behind her ear, her voice cracked, and she shivered. Mentally that touch revolted her, but some of that damned drug must be lingering in her system, because her traitorous body wasn't revolted at all. And that dissonance, simple though it was, could easily be enough to drive her mad after not very long.

His expression gave nothing away--if he knew what effect his touch was having, he gave no sign. Those damn dark eyes were almost completely unreadable, and what in them was decipherable was something Uhura wished she couldn't see, because she could think of nothing in the world she wanted less. No, her body might not have nearly enough objections, but she still didn't think she had it in her to handle that all over again and come out with her sanity intact. Some officer she was turning out to be, she thought bitterly--but then, Nero was a special circumstance if ever there was one. Unfortunately.

Warm fingers traced the line of her jaw, his thumb brushing over her lips, and she couldn't help it--she jerked backward before she could think, but there was only so far she could go before she hit the wall--of course he'd trapped her there, leaving her no outlet. "Later," he said, just as softly, and Uhura shut her eyes and shuddered. God, she couldn't do this again, not now, not so soon, not when she hadn't had any time to recover.

"Stop it," she whispered, somehow managing to make the words sound like a demand rather than a plea; pleading with a Romulan was worse than useless, almost as useless as fighting one. If he kept this up she might not be able to help the latter, though.

He snorted quietly, hooking his arm around her waist and pulling her closer. "No, I don't think so," he said, the words muffled as he buried his face in her hair. "The sooner you get used to this, Nyota, the better, because I'm not letting you go. I'll make you forget him eventually, but until then I'd really rather not have to fight you every step of the way. Sure, it's fun now, but it'll get dull after a while."

A mindset only a Romulan could have, Uhura thought, trying desperately to concentrate on anything but Nero's uncomfortable proximity, his downright peculiar scent--not an unpleasant scent, but like nothing she could name; part machine oil, part harsh soap, part what was probably Romulan ale, and part…who knew what. Had such a combination belonged to anyone else, she probably would have liked it; as it was, it was one of innumerable things she was going to have to work very hard to forget once she got out of here. Starfleet training hadn't done her any good before, but she had to try it again, however little faith she had in it by this time.

She didn't dignify that one with a response, not wanting to get into what would almost certainly be a completely circular argument. Instead she tried to hold very still, her eyes fixed firmly at some point over his right shoulder--that peculiar lamp, a tall black thing of twisted metal that seemed quite at odds with the starkness of the rest of the room. Its light was less green than the utilitarian lighting of the walls, and she stared at it, fixing it into her memory so she didn't have to remember anything else. She had to fight an urge to cross her arms over her chest, to pull her robe tighter around her--to display any sign of weakness he might take as an encouraging sign. All she could hope for was that he'd get bored eventually, would move on to some other amusement; Nero was a Romulan, but he was also well on his way to insanity.

Then again, if he was fixated on her, he wasn't fixated on Spock. Horrible as all this was, it might be what had saved Spock's life--for now, at least. And…in here, if he did keep her in here, there had to be some way for her to…deal with him. Uhura had of course never killed anyone in her life, and until today honestly wasn't certain she had it in her to do so, but she'd be more than willing to do it now, should the opportunity present itself.

It was a good idea in theory, but it all hinged upon her being able to handle…everything else he tried, and she honestly didn't know if she could do that, either. Already she wanted to die and he hadn't even started.

"I need…I need…let me up, okay?" she stammered, nodding at the door on the far wall. He took her meaning at once, and to her relief did as she asked. Once she'd shut the door behind her she let herself shudder, clenching her teeth so they made no sound. She didn't dare stay long, but she needed even this small time to herself--time to do what she needed to do as well as take stock of her…the…everything.

The only real overt evidence, besides the tangled wreck of her hair, was the bite-mark beneath her jaw, and that she could conceal easily enough if she left her hair down. Beyond that, it would be impossible for a casual observer to realize anything had happened to her, for which she was grateful; Uhura didn't need any glaringly obvious signs she'd been…that he'd…

She shook her head, washed her hands, splashed water on her face, and tried to stop shaking. She did belt the robe much more tightly before she returned to the room, and when she stepped through the door her face was set and expressionless as a porcelain mask.

It took every ounce of willpower she had to cross back to that bed. She knew if she didn't, Nero would make her anyway, and she was damned if she'd struggle like a weak child; damned if she'd beg. Maybe, just maybe, if she managed to endure this, he'd let her see Spock.

"I won't fight you," she said steadily, once he'd pulled her down between him and the wall again, "but in exchange I want to see Spock. I want to see for myself that he's all right."

She hadn't seen his downright disturbing half-smile before. "How do you know I'd keep my word, if I said yes?"

Uhura couldn't help but glare again. "You're a Romulan," she said. "You're paranoid backstabbers, but you're supposed to value honor, aren't you?"

The word 'touché' wasn't in Nero's vocabulary, but if it had been she had no doubt he'd use it. "All right," he said, obviously amused, and she had to fight an urge to slap that smirk off his face. Had he really driven her so far, that her first instinct was to wish violence? The thought saddened her, and she shut her eyes, appalled to find herself suddenly near tears.

She didn't open them when he touched her face, not trusting herself to look at him yet. She felt him move, and couldn't help but flinch when he said against her ear, "You don't have to hate this."

Uhura shuddered. She knew what he meant, of course--there were always more drugs. Which was worse, she wondered--enduring this stone-sober and trying to retain what shreds of dignity she had left, or giving her will over to some drug that would save the horror for later? She was so horribly ashamed of her reaction earlier, though she'd certainly had no control over it, and then she hadn't had an option; the drugs, like all the rest, had been forced on her. Now, though…now she had a choice, to take them or leave them voluntarily, and that was infinitely worse. It was intentionally surrendering either her dignity or, possibly, her sanity.

Finally, she broke, and nodded wordlessly. She was no Vulcan, with the ability to retreat wholly into her head; whatever else the drugs might do, they would make her not care.

The bed shifted as he stood, and when he returned and she opened her eyes he held not a hypo, but a plain steel cup filled with some pungent, spicy-fragrant liquid. She grimaced, took it before she could second-guess herself, and downed it at one go.

The effect wasn't the same as last time. Whatever it was tasted vaguely like cinnamon, spreading heat all through her and making her half-dizzy. It didn't fully destroy her conscious thought this time, but it drained all worry and disgust and embarrassment right out through her fingertips. She'd been right; she didn't care now, and hopefully wouldn't for a long, long time, and when he turned her onto her back Uhura felt no need to fight him. She was warm and hazy and quite relaxed, and didn't flinch when he untied that soft dark robe and let his hands wander.

Mercifully, Nero didn't speak this time; her drugged mind could try to pretend he was Spock, though his hands felt nothing like Spock's, nor did his skin smell the same. Whatever had been in that cup made her not mind the difference, though, and when he bent his head to her neck she arched her back to give him better access. This stuff made her not have to think, and not thinking was the only straw she could grasp for right now. The more she let go, the deeper the hazy sea of mental fog became, so Uhura made no effort to hold on to…well, anything.

Her breath hitched in a strangled gasp when his fever-hot hand traveled up her leg, the soft dip of her waist, his thumb brushing the underside of her breast. Heat spiked through her, and before she knew what she was doing one arm had reached up to wrap around his shoulders, shuddering with something quite the opposite of horror. She could feel him smile against the hollow of her throat, laughing almost silently, but before her scattered thoughts could regroup enough to be angry at that his mouth traveled lower, hot and rough, and she bit back a strangled whimper as his fingers brushed up along her thigh. Her own fingers curled hard into his back without the bother of consulting her brain, which was rapidly losing what thought it had left, even if her awareness remained sharp as ever. It meant she no longer made any effort to keep silent, and when Nero's mouth moved lower still she let out an unashamed whimper. His hands closed hard on her waist as she tried to writhe beneath him, his tongue doing unimaginable things that threatened to make her black out entirely. Whatever this drug was, it heightened physical sensitivity to ridiculous levels--almost unbearably, and when his fingers joined his tongue she couldn't even find enough voice to cry out. Where the _hell _had he learned how to do that, and why? Uhura was too far gone to wonder much, but whatever bit of her back-brain was still her own added it to the list of questions she already had about this strange, strange Romulan. Waves of aching, intolerable need throbbed through her entire body, but he--somehow, through who knew what instinct--kept her just this side of release.

Quite suddenly, to her bewildered disappointment, he ceased his ministrations and sat up, pulling her with him before she could even register properly what he was doing. Somehow she found her back against his chest, skin on hot skin, and then his mouth was at her neck again, kissing and biting with a barely-restrained ferocity. The fingers of one hand twined in her hair, pulling her head to the side so his teeth could graze over that hollow beneath her jaw, the one already sore from earlier. His other hand drifted from her throat, slow but far from light, down, down her chest, her abdomen, until his fingers resumed what he'd so rudely interrupted. Some indecipherable sound left her throat at that, her body arching helplessly as it finally overruled her mind entirely. She felt rather than heard Nero laugh--the sound was mostly smothered against her neck, but she could feel it rumble in his chest. She'd be angry about that later--well, even more than everything else--but right now that drug had made her so desperate she didn't care _what _he did, so long as he didn't stop.

"_Please,"_ she said, or tried to; it came out completely incoherent, but it seemed Nero got the message, for with what ought to have been worrying ease he somehow turned and pulled her beneath him before she could finish speaking. Uhura was dimly aware that she could hardly breathe, that sweat already sheened her entire body and her mouth was dry with desire. Even now she couldn't bear to look him in the eye, so instead she wrapped her arms around his neck and drew his mouth to hers. He still tasted of that odd spicy liquor, and something else this time, too, but she could put no more name to it than she could to the first. If she kissed him she didn't have to look at him--had no chance to think about what the hell it was she was actually doing.

She had no choice, though, when he finally gave over tormenting her and entered her, hard and ungentle. He released the kiss and caught her chin in his hand, and when he said, low and rough, "Look at me," her eyes opened without her willing it. God, oh God, why did he have to do that? Why did he have to drive her to this and then forcibly remind her it was _him _who was doing it? Even the drugs couldn't keep her completely thoughtless now, not when those damn dark eyes were scant inches from hers. But, whatever muzzy horror that might inspire in her, she couldn't ask him to stop--not now, not when he'd pulled her consciousness up to such dizzy heights.

And it seemed he knew it, for he smiled when he moved within her, pressing her hard into the bed. She couldn't keep her eyes open then for all kinds of reasons, nor could she bite back the little cry that fought its way past her lips. She was the one who drove him to go faster, harder, fingers gouging deep into his back as she bit his shoulder in an attempt to muffle the little sounds of pure need she couldn't control. Nero didn't seem to mind that--seemed to enjoy it, in fact, and took it as an invitation to finally let go of his own control. He'd made her want him--had made sure she knew all too well he'd done so--but even now it didn't fully occur to Uhura how much he really did want _her. _This wasn't just a lesson in control, however much she would not want to admit that later--there was a healthy dose of pure, personal lust in it. A thing made all the more obvious when he groaned into her hair, half-helpless himself now; his breath was hot on her forehead, her temple, her cheek. And then his mouth was on hers again, his tongue darting lightly over her lips, and that was the little thing that threw her directly over the precipice of actual sanity. She clawed at his shoulders, shuddering as white-hot ecstasy rolled through her in waves as she buried her face against the side of his neck, and at first even she didn't realize that some of the heat on his skin was her tears.

----

_Next up, Kirk and a very, very angry Spock._


	3. Part III: Kirk and Spock

_Amazingly, there's no smut in this chapter. Pissed-off Vulcans and worried humans, but a distinct lack of smut._

_----_

Kirk hurt like hell

At some point a few more Romulans had shown up, apparently for the sole purpose of kicking seven different kinds of crap out of him, and he'd finally blacked out.

When he came to, he found himself in a small, cramped cell, a section of walled-off cargo hold, along with Spock, Captain Pike, and Bones--Bones, who was trying to clean up his various lacerations with what little tools he had available. Spock had one arm in an improvised sling, but it was his expression that halted Kirk cold. Never in his life had he seen such complete, barely-contained rage, and the fact that it was on the face of a Vulcan just made it so much worse. Romulans, yeah, they were easy to piss off--as he knew all too well, now--but Spock…a pissed-off Vulcan was a hell of a lot scarier. Kirk looked from his face to his arm and back again, and comprehension clicked in his muzzy, aching head.

Uhura.

It didn't take a genius to figure out why Nero had taken her, or where Spock had been dragged off later. Kirk hadn't had any idea there had been anything between the two, but why else would Spock be the one who had to…go with? He'd be enraged if it was any crew member, true, but there was something extra in the murderous glint in his eyes--something definitely personal. Something that made Kirk, normally so self-assured and almost arrogant, shudder.

Spock must have noticed, for he turned his head and looked at him. His face was so still, set and hard as stone, green-white as marble.

"Where did they go?" Kirk asked, not bothering with preliminaries.

Spock didn't blink. "I do not know," he said flatly, and looked away.

Kirk grunted as he tried to sit up, an action that sent fire stabbing in what felt like every agonized joint in his body. "Well, we've gotta find out," he said, wincing.

"Dammit, Jim, hold still," Bones demanded. "What good would that do, anyway?"

"Well, we have to go save her, don't we?" Kirk asked, ignoring him.

"Nyota is no, as you would say, damsel in distress," Spock said softly. "Given the opportunity, she will most surely save herself." He ought to know; he'd touched her mind more than once. She was fully capable of taking care of herself, of watching and waiting and seizing the first chance she could get; tough, competent, and stronger than she knew. She needed no--what was the Terran phrase? No knight in shining armor to ride to her rescue. But that didn't make him feel any better, because who he who knew her so well knew just what sort of damage this would do to her psyche. She wasn't foolhardy like Kirk; she'd know…to be patient, to wait for her opportunity, but what Nero would surely do to her in the meantime…the Romulan was half-crazy, but he wasn't stupid. Who knew how long it might be before he slipped up? And in the meantime he'd be slowly destroying the one Spock loved above all else. Oh, he could see why Kirk would want to charge in, phasers blazing, but in the end that would do Nyota no favors. Nero had taken her strength, her control, had shredded her dignity, and she was human--by human logic she would require her own vengeance. He couldn't mete it out for her, and Kirk certainly couldn't, either.

"So what, we just sit here?" Kirk demanded, incredulous. "Okay, so we can't go rescue her, but maybe we can do something to give her that chance, right? Come on, if we get out we can give Nero too many problems to ignore."

"You definitely could," Bones muttered.

"Where is everybody else, anyway?" Kirk asked, wincing again as Bones grabbed his hand and bent two of his fingers back into place with a sickening crack. Kirk yelped.

"You could've given me some warning," he grumbled, scowling.

"Don't be an infant," Bones, returned, resetting another one and ignoring Kirk's strangled protest.

"I don't know where everyone else is," Pike said, his voice a little slurred. "I think they separated us all over the ship. Anyway, Cadet, how are we supposed to get out?" He gave Kirk a tired smile. "You're creative, you figure it out. And get some weapons while you're at it."

"Not funny, sir," Kirk said, stung.

Pike fixed him with steady eyes. "I'm not joking. You beat the Kobayashi Maru, Kirk; you'd better be able to beat this."

Kirk leaned against the cold wall, looking at him in something like disbelief. He wondered if whatever Nero had given him had affected his Captain's brain. "Yeah, but I _cheated_," he said at last.

"I'd call it 'creative problem solving'," Pike said, with another tired smile. "Between you and Spock--if you can't get us out of here, I'm going to be very disappointed."

"So no pressure," Kirk muttered, still disbelieving. He glanced at Spock. "You willing to try?"

Spock paused, thoughtful. "I estimate we have less than a twenty percent chance of escaping this cell,' he said, "and five point three percent of causing enough of a diversion to be of any use. Such an attempt would be illogical, but," and here there was a very human glint in his eye, "I do not care." The sudden ferocity in his voice made Kirk twitch.

"…Oookay then," he said. "We need a plan. Other than just punching Romulans," he added, grimacing.

Spock arched an eyebrow. "Indeed," he said. "Perhaps you should have thought of that before they beat you unconscious."

McCoy tried not to snort, and failed.

"Shut up," Kirk said, to the world at large. "All right, Spock, you've got to be better at planning than I am--"

"It would be difficult to be worse," Spock observed.

"--so _plan_," he finished. "I'm going to see if the Romulans were considerate enough to leave us anything useful."

It didn't take him long to look. Their makeshift prison really was tiny, and dark, without even any dust on the floor. There were a few cracks in the walls, but though he could get his fingers into them he could do no more. _Damn._ The bars on the door were much too solid even for Vulcan strength--figured, since they were on a Romulan ship--but before he could get too frustrated, someone else showed up.

It was Uhura.

Kirk hadn't known what to expect, but it wasn't this--this woman with a face carved out of stone, a face that defied pity. He could only imagine what had happened to her uniform; what she was wearing now had to have come from one of the Narada's female crew, the functional black that almost seemed like the Romulan uniform. She'd been accompanied by a guard, but he left her alone when she glared at him. Her eyes made Kirk swallow--they alone showed any animation, filled with anger and something like grief. They _burned_.

She reached in through the bars, and Spock stood to take her hand. The look on his face was like nothing Kirk had ever seen, either, and when Spock extended his other hand to touch her forehead, Kirk looked away. Even he could recognize a private moment when it was that blatant.

_I brought you this. _Uhura's expression might be composed, Spock thought , but her mind didn't match it. He knew why she wouldn't say anything aloud; the guard surely wouldn't have gone far. _I don't know how much good it will do, but maybe you can use it to try to get out. I don't know where the others are yet, but if I find out I'll try to tell you._

_Are you all right? _he asked, when she pressed something into his free hand--something small and hard, cold metal.

She paused. _No,_ she said, honestly, _but I'll live, and I'll help you as soon as I can. We _will _get out of here._ She leaned in to kiss him through the bars, and then she and the guard were gone, leaving Spock both more and less desolate than before. She was alive and unhurt, but that hardness of expression was not the Nyota he knew. He hated---hated with a depth no human could be capable of--that she had to be so, that she had to draw so much on the strength he knew was there. How long would it last, he wondered? She hadn't let him past her surface thoughts, but he didn't need to see deeper to sense the horrible churning turmoil in her mind. He didn't want to know what else that damned Romulan had done to her, to make her retreat so deeply into her own head--as far as she, a human, could go.

Abruptly he became aware of the others, and found that while Kirk and McCoy were carefully averting their eyes, Captain Pike was looking at him with inexpressible compassion.

"She's tough," he said. "And you are, too. Don't let that bastard make you think otherwise."

Privately, Sock wondered if he was 'tough' enough. In less than a day he'd lost his mother, his planet, and now this--now this, as Kirk would likely say, bullshit. It would have been a lot to heap on a true Vulcan, and Spock was so permanently conflicted already that he was unsure he would be equal to the task he now faced, whatever it would turn out to be.

But he had no choice, did he? It was try or die, and he did not intend to die.

He glanced down at the thing in his hand. It was a thin sliver of metal, unrecognizable--flat steel, perhaps four inches long, with a slightly serrated edge. Not sharp enough to be a knife--if it had been, Nyota would probably have kept it, he thought grimly--but with a tapered point that ended in something like the flat head of a screwdriver. Hmm. Where she'd got it, or how, Spock didn't know, but surely it could be useful somehow. And he'd better figure out how, since the Captain was largely incapacitated, McCoy had his hands full dealing with said incapacitation, and _Kirk_ certainly wasn't going to be any use in that sense.

He had…enthusiasm, though--that much Spock had to admit--and a brain, even if it often seemed like he didn't want to use it. Spock had looked up his aptitude scores once he'd found the subroutine Kirk had programmed into the Kobayashi Maru, and had been, in spite of himself, impressed. The man had a genius-level IQ--it was simply unfortunate he seemed almost entirely lacking in common sense. He was old enough now by human standards to know better, though it was true humans seemed to reach adult maturity rather later than Vulcans--especially human males. There was probably a paper in that somewhere, whenever they got out of here.

But that was the point--Kirk's conviction that they _would_ get out was so form it was contagious, overriding many of Spock's more logical misgivings. What foundation that conviction had was constructed almost entirely on metaphorical sand, but that wasn't stopping this seemingly crazily optimistic young man. His father would surely disapprove, but Spock found it oddly…comforting.

"Once we're out, we've got to try to get everyone back to the Enterprise." Kirk was pacing the small cell, trying not to trip over Pike's outstretched feet.

"Yeah, if they haven't destroyed it already," McCoy said.

"They will not have." Spock raised an eyebrow at McCoy's questioning look. "Nero appears to have a singular fixation on the Enterprise, presumably from whatever experience he has had with it in the future. Romulus is a society that values status; very likely he will consider it a trophy."

"Never thought Romulan pride would come in handy," Pike grunted, shaking his head. "So we get everyone, get the Enterprise, hope Cadet Uhura either kills Nero or makes him wish she had, and get out. You two better figure out how we do that."

Spock winced internally at the thought of Nyota killing Nero. Certainly she Iwanted/I to, but she was no murderer; whatever satisfaction it might give her, it would also cause even more harm to her mind once the danger had passed. Which was partly why he wanted very much to do it for her. The fact that he himself had more than sufficient personal reason to want to snap Nero's neck was best left uncontemplated, at least for now.

"You think she could do that?" Kirk asked, watching him closely. "Kill Nero?"

Spock actually sighed, and nodded. "She could. Aside from the military training she has received in the Academy, she is…angry. Very, very angry." More than that he would not say, and Kirk was wise enough not to ask. Uhura wasn't the only one who was angry, he thought.

Still, trust it not to cloud a Vulcan's mind entirely. Spock might be obnoxious as hell at times, but Kirk couldn't help but feel sorry for him--and feel a grudging admiration for how well he was bearing up. If it had been _Kirk's_ girlfriend, he'd probably already have gotten himself killed trying to fight through every damn one of the Romulans to get to her, which would be…a little counterproductive. Then again (though Kirk would never admit this, even to himself) he wasn't likely to ever get a girlfriend like Uhura, or at least not until he'd done some serious growing up.

"Something so uncertain precludes the possibility of a complicated plan," Spock said suddenly, surprising him, "therefore I suggest we do not try. There are too many variables we cannot account for."

"So what're you saying?" Kirk asked. "We just break out and run around shooting people?"

Another eyebrow. "I am saying one of us will need to cause a diversion to allow the other time to search for the rest of the crew. That should be well within your capabilities, Cadet."

McCoy snorted again.

"And how do you suggest I do that?" Kirk asked, with a glower at Bones.

Spock's expression did not change. "Cheat," he said dryly.

"You got it," Kirk muttered, and wondered how the hell he was going to do that. Like seemingly everything else he did, he'd just have to make it up as he went along.

----

_Kirk and Spock will have much more to do once they actually get out of that cell, and Kirk especially can be very…Kirk-like. Next up is Nero, God help us all._


	4. Part IV: Nero and Ayel

_Nero came off surprisingly sympathetic in this bit. It's what I get for re-reading _Countdown_ while I was working on it, I guess._

---

It was quite some time before Nero actually let Nyota see Spock.

Part of it was sheer practicality; until the effects of her drugs wore off, she wasn't even going to be able to stand, let alone walk. He had no wish to let her up anyway, not yet, and Nero was the sort of autocratic bastard who didn't do anything he didn't want to.

Besides, she was exhausted, though he didn't fully understand why. _He_ wasn't, but he wasn't human, either; they apparently had far less endurance than Romulans. She was trying to pretend she was asleep, curled in a protective ball of bathrobe and blankets, but he knew better--she just didn't want to talk to him. For now, he wouldn't make her; instead he listened to the soft, very carefully even rhythm of her breathing. She might have fooled a human, but he could feel the tension that rolled off her in waves.

Had she been anyone else, he probably would have tormented her out of sheer perversity (though not _that_ sort; even he had limits), but he was reluctant to do so to Nyota. She was far too much fun when she was sane; shoving her off the metaphorical ship into madness would just be counterproductive.

Nero knew full well he was losing it--had been losing it by degrees for the last twenty-five years. The loss of his home and his wife had been bad enough, but twenty-odd years on Rura Penthe had only made it worse. He wasn't alone in that, either--half his crew were cracked in one way or another--but he'd fallen much farther down the slippery slope than the rest of them. He just didn't care.

None of them would live long, either, once their job was done--he knew that, too. Romulus was forever barred to him, for all kinds of reasons, and he was certain most of his crew would feel the same. More certain than he ought to be, though he could not know it. Those who hadn't started losing it might not want to die out here, but such a consideration would never occur to him. And he wasn't likely to care if it did.

The Federation had to be destroyed, but after that there would be no place in the universe for the Narada and its crew--nor for that of the Enterprise. Not even Nyota, which really was unfortunate; Nero wished he might have more time with her, but in his warped mind that simply wouldn't be possible. The end was the end, unavoidable.

Nyota…he reached out to touch that soft dark hair, very lightly. It had been so long since he'd felt a woman's hair that he couldn't help himself. It was thicker than his wife's, heavier; hers had been so fine and curly. Nyota's skin was just as soft, though, so smooth and unmarked, and his fingers traced the long line of her neck, ignoring her almost imperceptible twitch. She wanted to pretend to be asleep, and he would let her, but that didn't mean he had to leave her alone entirely. Behaving himself never had been in his nature, not even Before; it was partly why he'd chosen to be a miner, often away from the myriad rules of Romulus. Nyota was right in calling them paranoid backstabbers--Nero had loved his people and his planet, but the seemingly all-pervasive political intrigue, the cheating and assassination…that he had easily done without. He'd been relatively reasonable for a Romulan, Before, back when he'd had a true life, but no more. Never again.

He regathered his scattered thoughts, rose, found his clothing, and left Nyota to her own devices for a while. He still had a ship to run, after all, and too many prisoners to deal with--there would have to be a few mass executions, he thought. In a while he'd keep his word, and send someone to take Nyota to see Spock. It would keep her quiet, and twist the knife even deeper into that damn Vulcan's side, so it was a win-win situation all around. The thought made him smile, a smile that would probably have unnerved even Ayel.

The bridge had been functioning normally in his absence, despite their abundance of houseguests. Ayel, faithful Ayel, was managing the conn with his usual efficiency ,but there was an uneasy air about him, a faint but palpable aura of disquiet.

"Something bothers you, Ayel," Nero said softly, stepping up beside him. On the view screen before them the stars hung steady, unmoving pinpoints in the vast expanse of black.

"Nothing important, Sir," Ayel returned, just as softly. Nothing he would trouble his captain with, at least; he, like the rest of the crew, knew when to leave well enough alone.

He felt Nero's eyes, black in the dim green-white light of the bridge, boring into him. His captain knew him too well, and vice versa; Nero would not let it go, and Ayel knew it. He couldn't answer truthfully, though; not only because he was Nero's second-in-command, but because he was a Romulan.

Ayel didn't want to die.

It wasn't cowardice--Ayel wasn't _afraid_ to die, he just didn't _want_ to--not like this, anyway, and not yet. Unlike Nero, he had not written off the idea of a return to this timeline's Romulus--should they succeed, the Narada and its crew could prove invaluable to the Empire. Whatever his loyalty to his captain, he knew Nero had no long-term picture, no realization of the damage his good intentions could do to Romulus in this timeline. He was thinking of the distant future, a future in which Romulus would be spared the supernova, not realizing what Ayel had already thought of: if the Federation was destroyed, Romulus would not live to see the supernova, for one reason.

The Dominion.

The fact that Nero was too far gone to remember that was…worrying. It had taken the combined force of the Federation, Klingons, Iand/I the Empire to prevent the Dominion utterly overrunning the Alpha Quadrant. Even with the advances in technology the Narada could bring Romulus, the Dominion was formidable enough that without the Federation, Romulus would be doomed.

But he could say nothing of it to Nero, not now. So he kept his eyes straight ahead when the Captain stepped toward him, so close Ayel could feel the heat of his breath on his cheek.

"Do you doubt me, Ayel?" he asked, the words low enough that no one else might hear.

"No, Sir," Ayel returned evenly, or as evenly as he could, still staring at the view screen. He was half afraid Nero would hit him--he'd done that quite a bit, since they'd escaped Rura Penthe, to all of them. His temper was too unpredictable, as unstable as the rest of his mind, and that too worried Ayel.

It was something of an open secret among the Narada's crew, that Ayel was a little more devoted to his captain than most first officers. The only person who might or might not be ignorant of it was Nero himself; if he did know, he'd never given any overt sign. It was that almost unhealthily obsessive devotion that kept him obeying even Nero's maddest orders. There might be something he'd balk at, but he didn't yet know what that might be.

"Good." Nero was so close now the word was little more than a whisper against Ayel's ear, and then quite suddenly he was gone, off to prowl the ship and do who knew what. Ayel didn't acknowledge even to himself the small breath of relief he exhaled.

----

Nero didn't actually know what he was doing. He was restless, too full of energy to stay in any one place, and he traversed the levels of makeshift catwalks with no particular purpose. The skeleton of the Narada seemed almost alive, dark mental and dim light, dense shadows and here and there the delicate glitter of instrumentation. His crew always left him alone, when he was in such a mood; it was the only safe thing they could do. He had a very distinctive stride, and when they heard the thud of his boots approach they became quit conspicuously engrossed in whatever task they were performing.

Eventually his wanderings took him into the bowels of the ship, as he'd known they would. Nyota would have been and gone by now, he was sure; perhaps it was, as the Terran saying went, time to rub a little salt in the wound he'd dealt Spock.

Nero smiled a little, but somewhere, somewhere so far in the back of his fractured mind he could scarcely hear it, was a little voice that whispered, _You weren't always like this._ He hated that voice, hated anything that reminded him of the man he'd been Before--that man would never have even thought of doing any of this. It was all Spock's fault, Spock who had destroyed his life--Spock, who was paying, and who would continue to pay until the account was balanced with his death.

_Nyota didn't do anything to you. Mandana would not approve_.

He shook his head, as though by doing so he could jar that persistent voice loose. There were a great many things he'd done in the last twenty-five years she would not approve of; Nero had got very good at not examining them. Mandana would be horrified at what he'd become, what he'd done, but most especially what he was doing now. Spock deserved every ounce of misery the remaining Romulans might heap on him, but Nyota…she did not. However much he wished to keep her--however tempting it might be for him--for her it would be never-ending torture, whatever his intentions. No, he'd have to do it eventually, even if he did delay it until the last moment.

Sooner or later, he'd have to kill her after all.

----

"You really are worried, Ayel." The soft voice of Onen, the Narada's communications officer, floated to him from the shadows near the comm console. She knew him too well, he thought, and when he turned to her he found her bright dark eyes fixed on him, searching. The delicate lines of her tattoos made her pallid face even whiter--they were all so sun-starved out here, and the solar lights were no decent replacement.

"I question the wisdom of this plan." Onen would keep his secrets, his confidences. "Vulcan needed to be destroyed, but the rest of it…it's madness. I'll follow the Captain's orders no matter what he does, but in the end Romulus won't thank us."

"Because of the Dominion."

"Because of the Dominion." He wasn't surprised she'd thought of it, too; most of them probably had, but now. Only Nero was so blinded by hate and rage he couldn't give any thought to the future.

The navigator, Maren, watched them silently. He would carry no tales, either--because none of the crew would turn on the others, and because Nero, in his present state, might well kill the messenger. Literally.

"But what option do we have?" he asked. Their loyalty to their captain was absolute; mutiny was an incomprehensible idea. They could never go against any of his orders, however insane.

Ayel was silent, thoughtful, staring once more at the stars. "It's Spock he wants," he said at last. "Just Spock. The rest of the Enterprise is expendable."

Onen's voice was hushed, disbelieving. "Are you suggesting we let them _go?"_ Such a thought was as incomprehensible as mutiny.

Ayel turned to her again. "Of course not. But if they were to get _out_ somehow…if they are as formidable as the Federation believes, they'll save themselves. If not, they don't deserve to escape."

"They'll destroy us," she protested.

"They'll _try_." Ayel started pacing almost without realizing he was doing so. "Once upon a time we were an honorable people--there is no honor in massacring prisoners. Besides," he added, and there was inexpressible bleakness in his voice, "we have no future. I would follow the captain into death, but…not like this."

Silence, broken only by the faint hum of equipment. He drew a deep breath, savoring the scent of the bridge, the ship that was his only home--oil, the sharp tang of steel, the ozone-electricity of the instruments so lovingly cared for for twenty-five years. One way or another Nero would destroy it all, and really, to Ayel there was nothing wrong in that. However much he missed Romulus, if he was truly honest with himself he knew he did not belong there now--it was a dream, and it could be nothing more. The Narada could bring technological prowess to the Empire, but that Empire was not their home now--their families and loved ones would still be dead, no matter where on Romulus they settled. None of them wanted to live with their grief forever, and Romulans who did not die violently lived a long, long time.

"He'll kill you, you know," Onen said softly.

Ayel bowed his head. "I know. And I'll deserve it."

----

Spock did not look happy to see him, Nero noted with satisfaction. Neither did the others, but they hardly mattered, not even good Captain Christopher. He stood outside the bars--such hastily-soldered rebar, he thought absently--but said nothing; his half-smirk spoke for him.

Spock seemed determined not to speak, either, but Kirk had no such compunction. Nero had to be impressed by the kid's tenacity, if nothing else.

"What the hell did you do to her, you bastard?" he demanded, shaking off Pike's restraining hand.

"That," Nero said, with some asperity, "is none of your business." He was on a slightly manic upswing now, enjoying this a lot more than he ought to. "I know she came to see you--you'll notice I haven't hurt her. Nyota's safer than the rest of you. For now," he added thoughtfully. "You never know, I might change my mind." He smiled. "If I do, I'll be sure to tell you first."

The look in Spock's eyes would keep him warm at night for the rest of his life, however long that might be. Such black Vulcan eyes, filled with a rage quite at odds with the hard mask of his expression. Kirk, now, he was more than animated enough for two people, his face a battleground of white pain and red fury. He really did have such startlingly blue eyes, didn't he? It was a rare enough color on Romulus, but these were unusual even by human standards.

_Mandana had blue eyes, remember? Remember how much she trusted you?_

_And I failed her._

He shook his head, not seeing the wary looks the four gave him. All he could think of was that they'd have to move on soon, to Earth, to Andoria, and then settle the score with the Klingons, the Tellerites…so much to do, before the end, and in a way it was almost exhausting.

Nero looked at them again, and left without another word. Mania was quickly fading to a black, angry depression, and when he traversed the bridges back to his quarters, his crew again scrambled out of his way.

Nyota really was asleep, he found, curled up fully dressed in a bundle of blankets. Even in sleep her face was a mask of granite, too composed for a human--even in her dreams she fought him. It made Nero almost…proud, that she should remain so strong in the face of everything. Proud, yet paradoxically angry, a dichotomy so intense that for a long while he simply stood and watched her, torn between an urge to touch her, kiss her, or break her neck.

Finally he kicked off his boots and lay beside her, careful not to wake her as he buried his face in her soft damp hair, smelling now of the same harsh soap the rest of them used. She was so deeply asleep she didn't so much as twitch, not even when his fingers traced her face like a blind man. Her forehead, her temple, the delicate ridge of her eyebrows and smooth curve of her nose. Down to her lips, softer than anything he had felt in years, warm steady breath on his fingertips; the delicate line of chin and throat, feeling her pulse as slow and even as her breath. Very lightly over her collarbone, and then, almost without being aware of it, he too was asleep, conscious only of Nyota's warmth beside him.


	5. Part V: Uhura

_There's nothing quite like trying to write smut while your ten-year-old son keeps coming in to pester you. Uhura's mind is starting to crack in this one, I think; I'll leave the judgment of just how much up to you. :P_

----

Uhura didn't know how long she slept.

She woke gradually, by degrees, her mind registering sense one at a time. Warmth, first off, the warmth of heavy synthetic blankets and something else, a presence at her side her brain refused to recognize right away. Sound--deep, steady breathing not her own, very close to her ear, soft and warm against her neck. Smell--the combined scent of oil and metal and air too long recycled: the distinctive scent of the Narada, so different from the cool freshness of the Enterprise. With it a more intimate aroma, just as distinctive--soap and skin, the harsh sweetness of the leather of some unidentifiable animal. Sight still black, safe behind her eyelids, refusing to put her eyes at the mercy of the green-tinged light they knew awaited. And in her palm, solid and warmed by her skin, a thin sliver of metal pried loose from one of the joists in the bathroom.

She stayed quite still, not opening her eyes or allowing her breathing to change in the slightest. Remarkably she also managed not to tense, somehow remaining physically relaxed. Her mind was peculiarly clear, void of anything save a clean sharp firmness of purpose. She would probably only get one shot at this, but that thought didn't disturb her calm in the least.

A heavy arm was wrapped around her waist--she'd have to compensate for that, she thought vaguely, or she wouldn't stand a chance. If only she were Chekov, able to calculate complex equations in her head. Oh well…nothing for it, she supposed.

With a speed that would have raised one of Spock's eyebrows she twisted, a geometrical feat that sent a jagged protest of pain up her spine, and brought her weapon down as hard as she could. Vulcans and Romulans had their hearts in the side, not the chest, but she was a little hazy as to where in the side it actually was. No time to think--no _room_ to think--all she could do was put every ounce of strength she had into the blow. Uhura was in good shape for a human, but Romulan bone was a lot tougher than one might suspect--she had to somehow make it between his ribs, or she'd fail utterly.

She _almost_ made it--she'd swear she struck bone a fraction of a second before Nero caught her wrist and slammed her hand down beside her head. He wasn't playing around, either; somehow he'd gone from sleep to violence in two seconds flat, and in spite of herself Uhura felt a jolt of real terror at the look he leveled at her. He'd turned the lights down, and in the dimness his eyes were twin pools of shadow, his intricate tattoos a crazed spider's web of black. The hand on her wrist was worse than a vice, because a vice was not alive--it would not crush anything out of malice prepense. Nero, however…in that moment she wasn't afraid he'd break her arm, she was afraid he'd snap her neck.

"Clever," he said softly, reaching with his other hand to take the metal sliver from her suddenly bloodless fingers. "I'd wondered how long it would take you to try to kill me." There was anger in his voice, yes, but also a bizarre sort of…happiness? No, she thought, it was pleasure, amusement. 'You should have found a better weapon."

He tossed it away, and then he was on top of her, resting most of his weight on the hand that held her wrist. Uhura ground her teeth, trying not to grimace even in the darkness--who knew how sharp his eyes were.

"You really are fun, Nyota," he said, the words a hot brush against her ear, "but don't try my patience. You wouldn't want me taking it out on Spock, would you?"

She went cold, freezing in place as the realization of what she could have done hit her. What might he do now that she'd tried and failed? The thought angered her, but this time fear far outweighed that anger. Once again, not for herself, but for Spock, for what this half-mad Romulan might do to him, because of her or not. She knew he needed no excuse to take his temper out on Spock, but she didn't want to give him any extra impetus.

"Would I still be any fun if I didn't try?" she asked, but her voice cracked halfway through.

Nero smiled, a white flash of teeth. She had no idea what that smile meant, what might be behind it, but he didn't leave her long in ignorance. He'd either hit her or kiss her, and she was almost disappointed when he did the latter. Part of her had hoped she could provoke him into a real rage; at least a beating was a clean thing, a thing without shame.

She turned away, trying to evade the kiss, only to have him _lick_ her instead--her temple, her cheek, the hairline of her brow. The sensation was horrible, hot and humiliating, and she shut her eyes tight when he caught her chin and turned her face back to his. There was no dodging his kiss this time--a brutal kiss, hard and hot and hungry, biting at her lips. He forced her mouth open to deepen it and she nearly gagged, and that _did_ make him angry. His hand left her wrist and fastened around her throat, choking until the edges of her vision went blacker than the shadows, faint stars going nova before her eyes.

_Maybe this time he'll kill me_, she thought, and wondered that part of her almost wished he would. She was sure he would eventually anyway, if she couldn't kill him first, and he'd just proven how unlikely that would be. Better get it over with now, she thought dimly, before he did anything else.

She wasn't to be so lucky. Just when it seemed consciousness could hold on no longer, he released his grip and left her gasping, choking, her throat on raw fire. She still could hardly breathe, mostly because of his weight on top of her, and for what seemed like eternity she coughed as her lungs fought for enough air. So long that it took her a moment to register Nero nuzzling her hair, stroking her face, kissing her neck almost gently. His own breath was hitching in something like sobs, whose provenance she could not guess. Sadness, anger, desire--maybe all three, knowing him, and though Uhura wanted to shove him off her, she knew it would be pointless to try. So she lay still in the smothering darkness, trying not to flinch as he pressed his mouth along her shoulder, her throat, his teeth scraping very lightly over her collarbone. This odd gentleness was almost scarier than his violence, mostly because she couldn't know how long it would last.

Not long, apparently. He was halfway back to her neck when he bit, really _bit_, and though she clenched her teeth she couldn't bite back a hiss of pain. She did grab for his shoulders then, trying and failing to push him away--something hot and wet trickled over her shoulder, and it took her a moment to realize it was blood. _Her_ blood.

A little moan of horror escaped her throat, made all the worse by the fact that he kept kissing her, leaving a hot wet trail to her ear. A shudder wracked her whole body, and it made him sit up, what little of his expression she could see unreadable.

"Take that off," he said, fumbling with the catch of her shirt. She tried to stop him, her wrist telegraphing white-hot agony, and responded with words she knew she would regret but could not help uttering anyway.

"Make. Me." They were quiet, but almost a snarl. There would be no drugs now, no easy acquiescence; this time fighting was easier. He'd beat her--maybe literally--but there would be less shame in it than the other. Oh, she knew what she was in for, but she didn't care; in a physical fight she was far outmatched, but in her current mood she thought a battle of wills was something she could at least tie.

He didn't respond in words, naturally--simply ripped her shirt straight down the front, as easily as though it were tissue.

"Whoever owned that's going to be pissed," Uhura ground out, trying to smack his hands away. Still he didn't speak; instead he occupied his mouth exploring her skin, alternately kissing, biting, and licking even as she raked her nails across his head, clawing as hard as she could. This was as horrible as she'd guessed, but he wasn't having it all his own way this time--Uhura made sure of that.

She felt rather than saw him tearing at his own shirt, a struggling rustle of clothing, and then his damned hot skin was against hers, that oil-soap-spice scent filling her universe. He kissed her again, harsh and greedy, and almost to her surprise she kissed him back with almost terrifying viciousness. Hot liquor, intoxicating on her tongue, soon joined by copper when she bit his lip hard enough to draw blood.

_We're even now,_ she thought, a little crazily, and shivered when Nero laughed, an incongruously delighted laugh. And then he was struggling with her pants even as she raked her nails over his chest, deep and unforgiving--she could hurt him this way, at least; inflict damage he would otherwise never allow. He laughed again, and let her, but then quite suddenly his mouth was on hers again, his hands everywhere, hot and rough but horrible in a very different way, now. His weight was still half-crushing her, and for a moment Uhura fought a jolt of claustrophobic panic, breaking the kiss to fight for breath. She felt him laugh again, hot in her hair, and out of what turned out to be pure annoyance she bit his shoulder. Hard. His skin was somehow both sweet and salty, so she bit him again--his neck, his jaw, fierce and hard. These were no delicate love-bites, but they gave her more than the simple satisfaction of hurting him; even without the drugs there was something about Nero that was almost a drug itself. That should have scared her, but she was far too focused to fear anything beyond the immediacy of the moment.

And she still was afraid, in a way, in some primitive sense over which she had no control. This was a man who could kill her with almost no effort, who could break her spine with his bare hands if he chose. Antagonizing him like this probably wasn't the best idea, but she could care less--whether she did or not didn't change the fact that he _could_, and given his unstable mental state, might do it no matter what she did. And it was that fear, oddly, that rendered her disgust moot, overriding it and leaving a twisted sort of desire in its place. It was enough to let her continue without drowning in her own horror, and when he fought with his own pants she actually sat up to help him, still kissing and biting and scratching as she did so.

A desperate dark scramble, blind fumbling with buttons and fabric, and then Nero caught her shoulders and forced her down beneath him again. His hands would leave bruises, she was sure, but at this rate she wasn't the only one who would come out of this bruised. She caught his mouth and kissed him until the edges of her vision went black again, daring him to break it first before one of them blacked out.

He did, and then some--a hasty confused fumbling and then he had her up against the wall and he was on her, in her, the wall cold at her back and his chest hot against hers. He made no attempt to stop her when she clawed over his shoulders, and the small harsh begging sounds that brushed past her ear cut through her sudden mental fog and made her smile. This was going to hurt later, but she was getting him back now for what he'd done to her not long ago--_she_ was in control of this situation, at least marginally, mostly because she still had coherent thought and Nero apparently…didn't. At all.

He caught her chin, distracting her from biting at his neck, and the kiss he gave her was so startlingly gentle she gasped before she could help it. Nothing else he did was gentle, but his blood-sticky kisses were sweet and almost chaste, and that dissonance scattered all her thoughts entirely. It meant she couldn't stop the low moan that left her throat--couldn't help but kiss him back, uncertain anymore if it was his blood or hers she tasted. Almost unwilling he was pulling her out of herself, out of her safe shield of anger and vengeance, and Uhura barely had enough wits to avoid crying out his name when blinding, sharp, agonizing ecstasy ripped through her. One of his hands curled around the back of her head to press her forehead to the side of his neck, a gesture so paradoxically intimate she couldn't help the shuddering sob of breath she released.

And then he was shuddering, too, and the name he breathed was not hers, and she realized with a jolt that some of the heat on her shoulder wasn't sweat or blood, but tears. What that meant, she couldn't guess--could barely hold onto enough thought to keep hold of that realization--but when he pulled her down beneath him again she made no effort to fight him off. Nero's hands were in her hair, petting, stroking, the stubble of his cheek rough against hers, and for a long while she wasn't sure if the tears on her face were his or hers.

She shuddered herself, fighting for some kind of comprehension and losing. The sheer force of the twisted amalgamation of grief and anger and madness within him was so strong it hit her like a mind-meld--especially grief, now, for who know who or what. And in that moment one single thought crystallized with utter clarity: he would kill her soon, and then possibly kill himself. And maybe, just maybe, that was the only way she could save everyone else. He was so far past madness there was no stopping it, but maybe she could guide it in some direction that wouldn't mean utter ruin for everyone.

Just her.

Without at first realizing what she was doing, Uhura found herself stroking his face, his shoulder, trying to bear his weight and still breathe while salt stung the bite-marks on her neck. For the first time she thought it might be better if they did both die, because this was not something she thought she could ever forget, and it was not a ghost she could carry on her shoulder without going mad herself. This was changing her, far too rapidly, and she didn't think she wanted to live with that she'd become.

_I'm sorry, Spock, _she thought, and then gave herself over to Nero's infectious lunacy.

----

_Thank you, everyone who's reading this. This bit literally exhausted me to write--Uhura's POV is a lot more…intense…than everyone else's, even Nero's. Next up are Kirk & co._


	6. Part VI: Kirk and Spock

A/N: Kirk and Spock are not having much fun here, and neither, really, is Ayel, the poor guy. I never thought I'd feel sorry for any of them, but the Romulans are surprising me.

----

It had taken a lot of thought and rather more patience than Spock wanted to get even the first of their bars loose.

The strange whatever-it-was Uhura had given them had indeed turned out to be quite useful, but it was slow, frustrating going, made all the worse by Kirk's anxious restlessness. Spock could tell he was trying to rein it in, but the man was built for motion, not idleness, and it showed.

"What if he comes back?" he asked abruptly, and Spock looked at him. "We need some kind of plan if he comes back and finds we're gone too soon."

Spock's eyebrows drew together in a Vulcan frown. Nero's visit had visibly agitated Kirk, brief though it had been--had seemingly agitated a little common sense into him.

Unfortunately, sensible though the question was, there was no good answer Spock could give him. What plan they had was lunacy; nothing more concrete could be added, though it grated Spock's very soul just to think of it. This sort of fly-by-night action went against a lifetime of training--he was counting on Kirk to take the initiative there, since it was what he was good at, and the idea of Kirk faltering was…alarming. Spock _needed _him in this, odd and unsettling an idea though it was. Kirk might be an irresponsible wild-card, but this whole thing hinged on him being…well, Kirk.

"We'll have to distract him, now won't we?" Pike said, and the expression on his face told Spock he was thinking along the same lines. Kirk couldn't fold now. "He won't kill me yet--I'm the captain, dammit."

"Didn't stop him killing Robau," Kirk muttered. "All right. I just wish we had some way for you to warn us if he did show up too soon."

"The ship'll go on whatever passes for Red Alert among Romulans, and you'll have to run like hell," Pike said bluntly. "Trust me, he'll let you know. We won't have to."

That seemed to brace Kirk a little, to give him back some of that peculiar aura of well-intentioned chaos. Spock had to remind himself Kirk was young, that this was, not counting the day of his birth, his first to space. He wasn't going to act or think like a seasoned officer, not yet--though if they did get out of here, this whole thing was sure to temper him. It would temper anyone who didn't break under it, and Spock could think of few things that would break him.

Except emotion. Seeing Nyota and then Nero had upset his mind to such a degree Spock didn't need to touch him to feel it; he broadcast with the force of a tornado. It was a bizarre human thing, one Spock had never encountered at such close quarters; he understood the term 'hothead' now. Nyota was human, but much…cooler, to keep the thermal analogy. So cool she was almost frozen now, he thought, and gave the bar a vicious jerk. Kirk would explode if put under unendurable stress, probably taking out everyone and everything within reach; Nyota, on the other hand, would implode and only pull in whatever was nearby. Should it come to that, Spock hoped he would be the one near her, because then he would be the only one who could pull her out of her own head again.

The other three flinched when he yanked on the bar, then froze; quite without warning a Romulan was facing them, unmoving. Ayel, it was, Spock was sure--Nero's second-in-command. His face was still and set, but there was an anguish in his eyes that was truly startling--all the more so to Spock because the Romulan was broadcasting even worse than Kirk.

He tossed something through the bars--a ring of keys, heavy iron that clanged on the floor. Like the bars themselves they were hand-forged, rather than machine-stamped, no two alike.

"I was never here," he said, and the tone of his voice made even Kirk wince--it was the resignation of one who knows he is going to die, and soon. "You'll have to find the others yourself."

"Why are you doing this?" Kirk asked, for the first time looking at him like he was a real person.

For a very long moment Ayel was silent. "Honor," he said at last. "To give you a fair chance." He looked like he wanted to say more, but thought better of it, and disappeared into the shadows without another word."

"It's a trap," McCoy said, when they were sure he was gone. "Some kind of damned Romulan game."

"No," Spock said softly, staring at the keys, "it is not."

Kirk looked from one to the other. "Nero'll kill him if he finds out, though," he protested.

Spock looked up at him. "And he knows it," he said calmly. "I think…he will welcome it."

Truly horrible silence fell. Until now Kirk really hadn't thought of the Romulans as people, as anything other than enemies, but the sheer force of Ayel's agony was like a kick to the chest. He actually found himself wondering what the man had been like before all this--he couldn't have been that old for a Romulan, twenty-five years ago. It was obvious what had turned him into the monster they'd first seen; what was less obvious was--downright unknowable--was why he'd changed now, why he was giving them their 'fair chance'. How messed up did they all have to _be_, after all this time?

Spock divided the keys, wrenching the ring apart and giving half to Kirk. "Doctor get the Captain somewhere hidden," he ordered. "Cadet Kirk, take these and go left. I will go right, and see if I can find weapons for all our personnel when we release them."

"Jeeze, call me Jim," Kirk said, taking the awkward handful of metal. He didn't have nearly enough pockets, but he'd need his hands free in case he met any Romulans who weren't in on this little jailbreak--which he suspected would be most of them. "If we're both about the die, I don't want to go out being called 'cadet'."

Spock arched an eyebrow, as only Spock could. "Indeed," he said. "Very well, Jim. If I am able, I will return for Captain Pike and Doctor McCoy and meet you at the Enterprise."

"_I'll_ come back for Captain Pike and Bones," Kirk said, in a tone that brooked no argument. "You get Uhura. I think she'll need you." A hell of a lot more than she'd need him, certainly. Spock was the only one who would be any good for her, even if Nero hadn't done anything else to her--which was unlikely. "Good luck."

"Luck," Spock said, unlocking the door, "is illogical."

Kirk snorted, following him out. "So? What's your point?"

Spock paused, realized there was no decent response he could make, and shook his head. "I am sure I will have thought of one when we meet again."

"That's what I'm talking about," Kirk said, and then he was off, a quiet as he could be with his burden of keys.

Spock glanced at Pike, who gave him a half-smile. "Just go with it," he said. "And like he said--good luck."

Spock shook his head again, and with a mutter that sounded very much like "_Humans_" he too was gone, off into the maze that was the Narada's lower deck.

Privately he had quite a bit more faith in his hand-to-hand combat skills than Kirk's--he'd seen firsthand just what effect Kirk's had against Romulans, i.e none. It wasn't really Kirk's fault; he just wasn't strong enough to have much impact against a Romulan. There was no human equivalent of the nerve pinch, either, a thing Spock couldn't have taught him even if there had been time. He'd just have to…the human term was 'have faith', he supposed, which also went against his nature, but it was the only option he had right now.

He moved near-silently through the shadowy labyrinth of the Narada's hold, past long-forgotten ore and discarded, burnt-out equipment. The air down here had sat too long undisturbed, flat and stale, and but for the far-off sounds of Romulans at work high above him, all was silent. It was a heavy, oppressive silence, too, without the tranquility he normally associated with such quiet. It took every ounce of discipline he had to maintain it, to be part of it, to hold to logic and calm. Long years of habit kept his nerves and hands steady, sharp Vulcan eyes searching every shadow--he could only hope Kirk was being so careful, hampered as he was by slightly poorer human vision. The harsh sun of Vulcan had sharpened its peoples' visual acuity far beyond that of the most clear-sighted human; their evolution had not needed to adapt to such conditions, unfortunately for Kirk. Had Romulan vision degenerated over the millennia they'd spent sundered from Vulcan? Probably not, even more unfortunately.

He found the first group of prisoners not far from his own former cell--Chekov, bruised and battered; an even more beat-up Sulu; Yeoman Rand, in rather better shape, and Nurse Chapel, quite unharmed. The Romulans must have divided them into groups of four, Spock thought, as he methodically went through keys--which meant they had to be all over the ship. As Kirk would say, dammit. The pain from his hastily-splinted arm was overriding his bio-controls far too rapidly, too; it took very conscious effort to tamp it down again.

All four in the cell were giving him wary looks. The sight of such a roughed-up Vulcan was…novel, and not in a good way.

"Where did you get those?" Sulu ventured, when Spock finally found the right key.

"A Romulan." He offered no further explanation--only hauled Sulu to his feet, watching carefully when the man winced.

"I'll live," he said, catching Spock's look. "We need weapons." He glanced at Spock's arm, and wisely didn't ask.

"And a great deal more help," Spock agreed. "Kirk is out here, too; we may hope he will find some as well." How either of them could be expected to get any powered weapons away from Romulans, he didn't know, but… "Sulu, you fence, do you not? If we found you some sort of bladed weapon, would you be capable of using it in your current state?"

"I could try. Can't promise how much good I'd be." He grimaced again, and Spock glanced at the others. All cadets received basic hand-to-hand combat training, but the idea of any of them successfully obtaining weapons with it was ludicrous.

"The we will simply have to hope we avoid any of our captors," he said firmly, and divvied up the keys--the fewer each person held, the less noisy they'd be. "Follow me, and be as quiet as you can."

They seemed relieved to have a leader, he thought, but that was little wonder; they had no real experience at autonomous action yet. Simulations just weren't enough.

"What are you going to do once we've got everyone?" Rand asked, picking her way over the debris. It was wet down here now, the floor slippery and slimy, which made it much slower going.

"Find Kirk," Spock said, "and hope he can be…Kirk enough to cause enough of a diversion to allow us to re-take the Enterprise."

"Vhat about you?" Chekov asked, tripping.

In the dimness they couldn't see the muscles in Spock's jaw tighten, but the flat finality of his words precluded any questions. "I have my own business to attend to."

What that business might be, none of them were about to ask. Instead Chapel said, "Where is Doctor McCoy?"

"With Captain Pike. Kirk said he would go back and collect them both when he could."

"How is ze Keptin?" Chekov asked, relieved to find a safe question.

"I believe he will make a full recovery if we can get out of here soon. I do not think Nero did any irreparable damage." To Pike, anyway, he thought grimly. Nyota was almost certainly another matter entirely--which was why he had to find her as soon as possible. "We do not yet know what defenses surround the Enterprise, so it would be most advantageous to obtain weapons for all, if at all possible."

"Yeah, but how do we actually _do _that?" Rand muttered.

"When I think of a decent answer, I will tell you."

----

Kirk, for his part, was quite lucky there were no Romulans anywhere near him, for quiet he was not. What with all the keys, he simply couldn't help a certain amount of noise, because he wasn't as light-footed as Spock.

He found his first group not far from their former position, too, none of whom he knew--three women and a man, all cadets, all very grateful to see him. Like Spock, he too divided his keys, and the five moved on as quietly as they could--which wasn't saying much. Privately he hoped they'd find some officers soon, because most cadets' hand-to-hand skills were even worse than his own. At least he had several years' worth of bar-fighting experience in addition to what he'd learned at the Academy, and look how far _that _had got him, he thought, licking his split lip. It still stung.

Fortunately the next cell _did _include two officers, though its other pair were two of the assholes who'd beaten him up--ahem, got in a fight with him in the bar before he'd enlisted. He noticed with some satisfaction that they looked even worse off than he was--Romulans must have worked them over pretty good as well. Kirk gave them what could only be described as a shit-eating grin when he let them out, and moved on with rather more swagger than was strictly necessary.

On and on they went, and Kirk found himself wondering if Ayel had somehow ensured there would be no--or at least, possibly few--guards down here. Why this guy was really doing this, he couldn't begin to guess, but if it helped them he told himself he didn't care. He couldn't shake his memory of the look in the Romulan's eyes, though--never in his life had Kirk seen someone who not only knew he was going to die, but _welcomed _it. Spock had been right; for whatever damn reason, Ayel _wanted _the punishment he would surely get when Nero figured things out. And that…shook Kirk, however much he didn't want to admit it.

"I don't suppose you have an actual _plan?_" the cadet he'd dubbed Cupcake asked, stumbling over a leftover chunk of some sort of rock.

"Sure I do," Kirk said, with forced manic cheer. "It's called 'get everyone and run like hell'."

"That's _it?_"

"The rest of it's up to Spock. He's the one who's good at that kind of thing."

Mention of Commander Spock seemed to calm everyone. Most of them had had him as an instructor at one point or another, and the thought of his Vulcan brain hard at work on this issue came as something of a relief. Kirk didn't bother to tell them Spock didn't actually have any more concrete plan than he did, nor that there was a distinct possibility that, even if they retook the Enterprise, he might well get himself killed by Nero. Ayel Kirk could feel for, after a fashion, but Nero still scare the hell out of him. Guy was a bona fide psycho, and Kirk wouldn't let himself think that neither Spock nor Uhura might come back if they were dealing with that whackjob. He was more than half tempted to go help them, but even he realized that it was a personal matter, one in which he had no part. All he could do was hope that between the two of them they'd be a match for that pointy-eared son of a bitch.

He'd collected a good thirty people before they ran into their first Romulan. As he'd suspected, the guy very obviously wasn't in the loop as far as their escape went--in what seemed like half a second he'd drawn his phaser and opened fire, sending them all scattering for whatever cover they could find. Only Kirk was suicidal enough to charge the bastard, who through was probably sheer surprise actually missed. Kirk ploughed into him like a linebacker, a full-tilt, no-holds-barred full-body slam, knocking his own wind out in the process. Fortunately for him, a squadron of his braver crew mobbed them both, effectively dog-piling the Romulan in a kicking, punching scrum absurdly reminiscent of a playground brawl. By some miracle he got hold of the unfortunate guy's phaser, and one shot took care of the problem. And now, thank God, at least they had one real weapon.

Not until later would it strike him as odd that, despite the presence of a fair number of officers, the whole cavalcade followed his lead without question. Even Cupcake raised no objection when he held onto the weapon, taking point and signaling the rest to follow once he was certain the coast was clear. Even when they'd freed half of Security, nobody said a word about it. When he finally did figure it out after the fact, he chalked it up to the fact that he'd been the one who let them all out. Never would it occur to him that, in that moment at least, he had the unquestionable authority of a born leader.

"How the hell are we supposed to get up there, anyway?" one of the cadets asked--a tall woman in a medic's coat, her formerly carefully-styled red hair knocked half down and several livid bruises on her face. She also, Kirk noted, had very scraped knuckles, of a sort he recognized quite well--probably why she'd got the bruises.

He glanced at the nearest of the platforms, a good three stories above them. "The Romulans get down here, so there's got to be a way up somewhere." Though they seemed a little too happy to jump from platform to platform, that would be a fatal drop even for a Romulan. "We've got to run across it sooner or later." How the Romulans avoided getting lost, he didn't know; the Narada's size was beyond ridiculous. He also found himself wondering if any of them ever missed when they jumped, and what happened to the bodies if they did.

Into some sort of tunnel they went, dark and chill and wet, lit only by what little of the outside light filtered in. Water splashed beneath their feet despite their best efforts at silence--and they all froze quite suddenly when Kirk reached the other end, and his cry of, "Oh, SHIT!" echoed down the entire length of it. A cry immediately followed by the sound of phaser fire--a lot of it.

Kirk shot, dodged, rolled, but there were just too damn many of them, and if any thought to look in the tunnel there would be complete slaughter. He took aim at the Romulan closest to it, but before he could fire the poor bastard was dropped by a blast from above. Had Spock found everyone else already? He didn't dare look up to find out; instead he focused on picking off everyone his helpful sniper missed.

It was over in less than a minute--over a dozen Romulans lay dead, and only then did he look up. To his surprise it wasn't Spock, or anyone from the Enterprise--it was the first female Romulan he'd yet seen, her face as hard and cold as Ayel's. Some half-hysterical part of him wondered how many lady Romulans the ship had, and if all of them had actually kept their hair amid this ship of skinheads.

"Uh, thanks," he said, tipping her a half-salute, but she said nothing, and disappeared as silently as she'd arrived.

"What the _hell?_" That was Cupcake, who'd emerged right behind him.

"I'll explain later," Kirk muttered. "All right, get their weapons--somebody get back and cover that way, too."

The dead proved to be a veritable arsenal of weapons--knives as well as phasers, and even a phaser rifle. Kirk passed that one on to the highest ranking security officer, incredibly relieved that now he wasn't the only one armed.

Another shot came from above, and Kirk winced in spite of himself--he didn't want to imagine what it must be like for that woman to shoot her own side. At least she was a good marksman, he thought; not many were likely to get past her. He just hoped their luck would hold until Spock was through.

----

Spock had freed nearly a hundred of the crew before the alarms went off--much deeper than those of the Enterprise, blaring so loud they shook the floor.

"Well," he muttered, "that took unfortunately less time than I had anticipated."

He glanced at his fellows, all of whom had flinched at the first boom. Rather more of his people were armed than Kirk's; some thoughtful Romulan, probably Ayel, had left a cache of rifles near one of the cells.

"Come on," he said, waving them after him, no longer bothering to stay quiet--there was little point, since he had to almost shout to be heard over the alarm. "You and you--there should be a turbo lift up ahead. Half of you with weapons, getup higher and do what you can. The rest of us will meet you when we are able."

They did as bidden, hurrying with military precision, while Spock and his half-unarmed squadron raced to find the rest of the cells. There was no calculating how much more time they would have before it degenerated into a full-on firefight, so they had to make the most of what time they had.

---

A huge thank-you to everyone who's reviewing--I'm glad you're all liking it. There's at least three more chapters, possibly more, and then this will stop draining all my brain and energy. XD


	7. Part VII: Nero and Ayel

A/N: I did not expect to ever, ever feel as sorry for the Romulans as I did writing this. Absolutely nobody has a good time in this chapter.

_----_

Nero was neither asleep nor awake when the alarm sounded. He didn't know how long he'd spent in that odd quasi-dream realm that existed between the state, tracing the lines of Nyota's face and having his cheek stroked in return. It had been so long since anyone had done that that the sensation seemed wholly new.

His eyes snapped open to find Nyota still watching him, and he felt her whole body tense beneath him. Such an alarm could only mean one thing, and they both knew it.

He glanced at the door, but before he could move she caught his chin as he had hers so many times, forcing him to meet her eyes.

"Don't you _dare _hurt him." It was a command in her voice, an order shorn of all supplication, iron-hard.

"Give me a reason not to," he countered, so close his nose almost touched hers. Gone was the almost-vulnerability of only a moment before, as though it had never been.

"I don't have to," she said, pure ice in her words. Her fingers dug into his chin, hard.

He bent his head until his lips brushed hers, and felt her shiver. "Stay, and I won't harm him."

"Bullshit," she growled. "Anyway, you'll just kill me if I stay, and we both know it."

"I'll kill him if you leave," he countered, one hand tangling in her hair again as he sat up enough to meet her eyes.

She regarded him so long in silence that Nero thought she might actually be considering it--until, entirely without warning, she yanked him down and sank her teeth into his neck.

It wasn't a playful bite, or even the fierce, driven things she'd delivered earlier; this was Nyota making a full-fledged effort to tear his throat out. His hand tightened in her hair out of pure reflex, pulling her head back and forcing her to let go. She'd drawn blood--more than a little--her teeth were nearly black with it, and he stared as he pinned her uninjured hand, wavering between an urge to crack her skull or, incredibly, to laugh, quite humorlessly. And yet he was also…_hurt, _in some obscure way, a way he could not have foreseen. In the very short space of time they'd had he'd grown far too attached to her--maybe he ought to just kill her now, before it got any worse.

Some of that pain, faint and half-bewildered though it was, must have shown in his eyes, for it made her pause, her expression going wholly unreadable. For a brief moment he would swear there was actually pity in her black eyes--and then she struck him, hard, grimacing at what had to be agony in her wrist.

"Poor move, Nyota," he said softly, and wrapped both his hands around her throat.

----

Ayel cursed when the alarm went off--he'd hoped they'd have more time. There was nothing he could do now, though; the Narada would shortly become a battlefield, on which maybe no one would be left standing. Either the Enterprise crew would make a good stand, and possibly some escape, or they'd be slaughtered. Whichever it was, it was out of his hands now; they'd gone much too far to go back.

His eyes found Onen. She'd disappeared for a while, on an errand about which he did not question her, but when she'd returned her face had been white as drained dilithium. He said nothing, but he did not need to. Soon enough Nero would find them, and then…

…then there would be an end, at last.

----

Watching Nyota struggle was horrible, Nero found, but that didn't sway him--he didn't loosen his grasp until that struggling had ceased, her hands falling limp. He hadn't killed her, he knew; her pulse still fluttered against his palm. He didn't _want _to kill her, but he couldn't have her interfering. Not now. She'd stay here, safe and unconscious, until all was over. He could grant her that mercy, at least--the mercy of not making her watch when he killed Spock.

He didn't bother dealing with the wound at his neck when he rose, though it was bleeding freely all down his chest. He didn't even bother with a shirt--simply found his pants, boots, and jacket, wincing a little as the fabric pressed against the gouges she'd dug in his shoulders. A glance at his phaser rifle, the idea instantly dismissed; instead he grabbed his curved sword, one of the few things he'd had on the ship with him from his old home.

He'd settle this like a Romulan.

He found utter chaos when he left his quarters. The entire ship was alive with echoes, phaser-fire and screaming reaching the shadowy roof far above. That could only mean one thing--this had to be more than a small-scale breakout. How, in the name of all the hells, could they have done that? Enterprise crews throughout history were notoriously resourceful, but this was ridiculous. The Narada's crew were not nearly inept enough to allow such a widespread revolt, or so Nero had thought.

There was still a phaser in his belt--he wasn't stupid enough to go without one--and he drew it as he leapt from platform to platform, hunting. Most of the action seemed to be going on much lower down, which was hardly surprising, sine the Enterprise crew had all been imprisoned at base level. Somehow they must have got their hands on weapons, or the battle wouldn't be this fierce--had all his crew been _drunk _down there? There was no excuse for such a lapse, unless…no, it was unthinkable. His crew were far too loyal for mutiny, for even the thought of it, and in any case Ayel had all the keys.

Ayel.

It couldn't be Ayel, his most faithful, most trusted. Ayel, who was…close to him, in more ways than even he knew, though he had suspected for quite some time. Surely Ayel of all people could not have betrayed him.

_But who else? _that traitor voice whispered, as his booted feet landed hard on the platform below. _Nobody else had keys, and you know anyone who tried to take them from him would lose._

It was true; next to himself, Ayel was master at combat on the Narada. He could easily kill anyone who went after him; could, and would, or so Nero had thought. Nyota's violence had caused him something like pain, but this…even the thought of betrayal from Ayel was close to agony. His crew had become his family, and though he knew many of them feared him, he had never for a moment questioned their loyalty. How could they have turned on him, if indeed they had?

It seemed not all of them had, at least; when he leapt down again he found Arin, one of his engineers, felled by phaser-fire. She wasn't dead, but was so nearly so that she barely stirred when he laid a hand on her shoulder.

"They're out," she said, her voice slurred with shock and pain. "I don't know _how,_ but it's almost all of them. They're headed for the Enterprise.

She shut her eyes, trying not to cringe. Phaser wounds did not bleed, but Nero knew there was nothing to be done for her now. She still had her honor blade, the one weapon no Romulan was ever without, and he drew it from her belt. Her eyes opened, regarding him steadily--she knew she could not live, too.

"Thank you, Arin," he said softly. "Rest now, and may we meet Beyond." Final Honor was the most he could give her, and once she had nodded he slit her throat in one clean, practiced motion, fast enough that she would know no pain.

How long he knelt beside her, he didn't know; all he ever knew was that for a time the sound of battle faded as a grief he hadn't known since Romulus first burned took possession of it. Grief shortly followed by near-blinding rage, a rage that drew him to his feet and propelled him down, down, until he landed right in the thick of the fight. Though he didn't draw his phaser, the Enterprise crew--and even many of his own--fled him, for the combined fury and madness in his face was not something anyone was willing to stand against. He hacked and stabbed through the melee, cutting all he met down like a scythe through grass--red blood and green mingled on the deck, slippery and sticky. He'd destroy this ship and everyone on it before he would allow the Enterprise to escape.

----

Far above, Ayel watched in silence. His captain would grant him no easy Final Honor, but he'd face it anyway--let Nero take the vengeance he deserved for such complete betrayal. But there was something else he had to do first.

He alone of all the Narada's crew knew the code to open Nero's quarters, and it was there he went. He didn't know if that Lieutenant Uhura was alive or dead, but if she lived she too deserved her chance. What the captain had done to her was not worthy of him; a Romulan would demand the opportunity for retribution, and though Uhura was no Romulan Ayel couldn't deny her that chance. Nero had taken her honor, and she needed the opportunity to take it back, however much it pained Nero to give it to her.

He didn't actually open the door. What she did now was her own business; all he could grant her was the freedom to do whatever she wished to do. Once done he fled, hurrying back downward in search of the fate he knew awaited him.

----

Eventually Nero lost track of how many people he killed. He'd let his anger take over, gave it free rein, until he no longer knew if the blood that coated his hands was his or someone else's. The wound at his neck was still bleeding, he knew, hot pain that seemed to focus him as much as he _could _focus right now. Finding Spock was all he cared about, for far too many reasons now--Nyota had joined the list of things Nero loathed him for, Nyota and her unbending loyalty to that damn Vulcan. Without him she would have no reason to leave the Narada--to leave Nero. He'd kill her eventually, but until then she would be his, really _his, _free of any external ties. That he could honestly believe that only showed how far his mind had fallen, how far he'd drifted from sanity.

He spotted Ayel not far above, standing quite still, and the look in his second-in-command's eyes told him everything he needed to know. Guilt, yes, but also undeniable sadness, even resignation. Ayel had known he would die for this, Nero realized; must have actively sought him out so he _would _die.

Nero thought briefly of his phaser, but again dismissed the idea. This was personal, something that had to be taken care of up close, and with an inarticulate snarl he started climbing the web of pipes and hoses up to the next level. Ayel made no move to flee, or to attack--just watched his captain with empty dark eyes, already dead even though he still breathed. He didn't blink when Nero stalked toward him, nor did he flinch when the tip of the sword pressed against his neck.

"Why, Ayel?" The words were soft, deadly; angry and betrayed, but the bleakness in Ayel's answer cut through his rage like a sabre.

"This has to end, Sir," he said, his voice steady even though the blade cut shallowly into his throat. "We've had revenge on Vulcan--that's enough. Romulus will need the Federation in time, or it won't live to see the supernova.

He swallowed when the blade dug deeper, but still didn't try to step away. Deep green blood spilled from his neck--just a trickle, not the flood that would flow before Nero was done.

"I expected better from you, Ayel," Nero said, still softly.

"I know. And I'm sorry." And before his captain could slash, Ayel jerked forward and impaled his own throat on the outstretched sword. Blood fountained everywhere--the floor, the sword, Nero's arm, and it was only a moment before Ayel's eyes started to glaze.

Nero swore, jerking the blade free and watching his former second-in-command crumple to the deck. He didn't linger--there was too much to do, too much revenge to be had. Rather than dive back down to the melee he headed for the Enterprise, the choke-point all the Starfleet officers would find eventually. He couldn't ignore the horrible, lingering acid-taste of betrayal, though, no matter how he tried.

He found bedlam. What of his crew remained loyal--which was most of them, he realized--were engaged in a desperate firefight, the light of phaser-fire strobing red on the dark steel. He caught sight of Kirk, that irritating cadet, trying to support Captain Christopher as they fled to the docking bay, and aimed his phaser. The shot went wild, but it was enough to make Kirk turn.

"Nero!" he shouted, and abruptly all sound died as friend and foe turned to look at him. He searched the crowd for Spock, but could not find him; all he could do was stare down at them, his expression so terrible that even Pike quailed. None of the Enterprise crew dared take a shot at him; for what seemed an eternity there was utter silence.

And then, behind and above him, the unmistakable metallic _tzing _of the Teral'n.

Half the crowd looked up; the other half didn't dare take their eyes off him for a moment. Nero himself turned, knowing what he would see, wondering if this too was Ayel's doing, his last betrayal.

Uhura stood on the platform above him, the Teral'n gripped in her left hand--her weaker hand, but the one that was uninjured. She'd stolen one of his shirts, but the rest of her clothes were those Onen had given her. Her expression was unfathomable, no more readable than a statue's--but her eyes were very much alive, regarding him with a terrible mix of anger, determination, and…pain, whose origin he could not know. His own hands had left livid marks around her neck, bruises darker than her skin; at least she'd washed most of the blood from her face. No Romulan faith had any equivalent of angels, but had Nero known the word he would have applied it to her--an avenging angel, poised to deliver the full force of her wrath.

Footsteps broke the silence below, and her eyes left him for a moment. That had to be Spock, he was sure, but he wasn't about to turn to find out. Nyota did not seem the sort who would stab someone in the back, but in her current state he was unwilling to chance it.

"Nyota." It _was _Spock, damn him--Spock, sounding far less detached than any Vulcan ought to. Pain in his voice, too--far too much of that going around, Nero thought; it was a wonder it hadn't fractured the Narada apart at the seams. To his surprise, that was all Spock said--no supplication, no attempt to logically reason with her. Just her name, three syllables that should not have been capable of holding the sheer volume of love they contained. The very sound enraged Nero--the knowledge that Spock still had what he himself had lost so long ago--but though he still had his phaser, nothing in the universe could have brought him to fire on her now. Not when so much of the hurt in her eyes was his fault.

She herself said nothing--to either of them, to the frozen crowd, to anyone. Nero was quite certain what she would do in the end, even if none of the rest of them believed it, and some small part of him was bizarrely _relieved _when she did--even if not quite in the way he'd expected.

She didn't hurl the Teral'n at him--instead she launched herself off the platform with a wordless cry he would never have forgotten even if he'd had the chance, bringing the heavy weapon around and down--straight into his chest.

"Jesus CHRIST!" That had to be Kirk, Nero thought dimly, as the sheer force knocked them both off the platform, smack into the middle of the throng below. Strange, he thought, how little pain there was--it was almost a cessation of pain, lancing some infected wound he'd borne so long he'd forgotten what it was like to be free of it. The only thing he was really aware of was her eyes, their rage replaced by confusion, startled bewilderment--shock at what she had just done, he supposed, and possibly at the pain of landing so hard against the deck. Physical, mental--he couldn't know, not now, not when his awareness of all around him was so rapidly fading. Incredibly, none of his own people had yet opened fire--shocked themselves, he thought, too stunned to react. Odd, how clear his mind was, too; how easily he could focus on Nyota, if nothing else.

With great effort he reached up, running his blood-sticky index finger over her cheek, his eyes holding hers. And then there was darkness, merciful darkness in which he knew no more. His last thought was a hope that Mandana would forgive him when they met again--and that Nyota might as well.

----

Good frickin' _grief_, I never thought I'd say this, but poor Nero. Poor Ayel. Hell, poor everybody. It's not nearly over yet for any of the living.


	8. Part VIII: Uhura

Poor Uhura finally gets a frigging _break _in this chapter. I think this one is marginally less depressing than most of the others, largely because she's got her Spock now and he's got her and even though there are some MASSIVE issues to deal with, they're together and they're adorable. I am such a sap.

----

When Uhura finally regained consciousness, she immediately wished she hadn't.

Her neck hurt, her head hurt, her shoulders hurt--really, there wasn't much of her that _didn't _hurt. She had a few moments of muzzy incomprehension, and then memory hit her like a meteor.

It took perhaps two seconds to assure herself Nero was indeed gone, during which time she tried to stand and found what seemed like every joint in her body shrieking in protest. Clothes, clothes…her shirt was useless, but the rest were alright once she'd found them. She had to cadge one of Nero's shirts, which proved…awkward; it smelled like him, an uncomfortable intimacy against her skin., but there was no time for lingering discomfort--no time even for undue thought.

A weapon--she needed a weapon of some kind. He'd left his phaser rifle, the strap of which she slung over her shoulder, but there was also a large heavy stick, a staff much taller than she was. She paused long enough to touch it, wondering what the hell it was and if it would be any use--and then she found the hidden catch, the bit you had to _twist_, and a pair of curved blades sprang out near the end.

She stared, hardly daring to breathe. _Yes_, she thought, there was a…_rightness_ in this, in taking this weapon so personal to him. If he'd hurt Spock, she swore she'd kill him with it.

It was heavy enough to prove awkward in her left hand, but there was too much wrong with her right wrist to carry it in her dominant hand. She'd thought she might have to shoot the door down, but to her immense surprise it was unlocked. Surely Nero could not have been so careless--could he? No time to wonder. Armed, angry, and thirsty for revenge, Uhura went forth into the echoing din.

She met no Romulans on her way down, hopping awkwardly from platform to platform--having her air supply cut off so thoroughly had left her dizzy, making her descent almost suicidal difficult. Her lungs were still on fire, her breathing a conscious effort, but she had to keep going--_had _to, no matter how hard it was, no matter what she might find below. Whatever happened, _someone _was going to die--even if that someone turned out to be her.

Down, down, and the phaser-fire and screams grew louder, red light winking far below. So many of them must have got out--how? No time to wonder about that, either. All there was, was pain and torturous descent and anger, and nothing else, or so she told herself All the confusion Nero had given her earlier had no place here now; there was only now, the immediate moment. She could deal with it later, if she lived.

Third level, now, and here there were bodies. Lots of them, Romulans and Enterprise crew--rather more of the former, she noticed dispassionately, shutting out the sight and all its implications as she moved on. The bulk o the fight seemed to be far ahead, near the docking bay that held the Enterprise, and she could only pray Spock was still alive there. Weirdly, she prayed Nero was as well, that nobody had killed him yet.

She had to do that herself.

And then she was closer, much closer, close enough to hear actual words in the din--Standard and Romulan. Things would come to a head down there, one way or another. So she ran and leapt, and tried not to wheeze or stumble, until she was right above the battle and had her target in her sights.

Nero.

She didn't know how Kirk's shout managed to silence everyone just as the blades of the Teral'n sprang out, but the sound was enough to make Nero turn to her. The look in his eyes so startled her that for what seemed an eternity she couldn't move. Never in her life had Uhura seen anything like it--pain and rage and madness, but also something very like despair. It was, though she could not know it, much the same as Ayel's had been before he killed himself on his captain's sword. There was a kind of resignation in Nero's gave--he knew what she'd come to do, and with a jolt she realized he did not intend to stop her. Vengeance was hers for the taking.

And yet she hesitated, just a moment. Even now Uhura was no murderer, and though she had ever justification for killing him, she couldn't _help _but hesitate. But this was, she thought, perhaps the only way to keep him from her nightmares--if she had to bear the ghost of her brief time with him forever, there had to be a death to go with it. All accounts had to balance, and it was with that thought that she launched herself off the platform, bringing the unfamiliar weapon around and by some miracle hitting him square in the chest.

She was hardly aware when they both crashed to the lower deck, though the impact nearly knocked the breath from her. She hadn't lost her grip on the Teral'n, though pain shot up her arm and all through her shoulders; just then she was near insensible to any of her physical wounds. All she _was _aware of were Nero's eyes, near-black even in the strong light, of the hurt and grief and peculiar _gratitude _in them. Gratitude for what, she didn't know, nor was she about to question it now. She couldn't have even if she'd wanted to.

She didn't flinch when he reached up to touch her face, though his hot rough finger was sticky with who knew how many people's blood. She felt the line it left, and through her haze of shock she thought it almost seemed a twisted sort of benediction. And she held still, watching the life drain from his eyes, and did not at first realize she was crying. For herself, but also, oddly, for Nero--for the man he must once have been, a faint echo of whom she'd seen not so long earlier. For all of it, and all of them, the living and the dead, and the horrible grief that engulfed her threatened to drown her.

Not until she felt a light hand on her shoulder did Uhura look up, up into the warm dark eyes of the one she'd fought so hard for. Spock said nothing, but very gently took her hands from the Teral'n, drawing her to her feet. She caught him in a rib-crushing hug, pressing her tear-streaked face against the warm fabric of his shirt, and tried not to fall apart entirely.

"It's over," he said softly--to her, to the Romulans--everyone. Indeed even now none of them opened fire, still stunned into inaction, and nobody dared protest when he led her to the Enterprise. What happened afterward was unknown to her then and ever after; once she'd reached her rooms there was only darkness, a blessed darkness without thought or pain.

----

Once again she woke slowly, her senses taking careful stock of all around her as they stirred. Clean air of the Enterprise, cool after her time on the Narada. Skin still sweaty and sticky, smelling of blood--and of Nero, but no, don't think about that. Think of the other smell, soft fabric and clean male, the firmness of the warm hand that held her own. Even, tranquil breathing the only real sound in the room--soothing in its quiet. And when she opened her eyes, light, muted soft light illuminating the white face and dark eyes that watched her. The sight was enough to bring tears once more to her own eyes, trickling over her temples.

Spock stroked her hair, and there was a _cleanness _in his touch she had sorely missed. Cleanness, and love too deep to be expressed in mere words, resting calm and warm in her troubled mind. Uhura tried to speak, but her throat was too dry; all that came out was a rasp.

_Don't_. Spock's voice in her mind, as soothing as his touch. _Rest now. I thought perhaps you would not wish to go to sickbay yet, so rest. I will not leave you._

And again, darkness.

----

When she eventually woke again she found breathing easier, her lungs no longer aching. Spock had gotten rid of her outer clothing and boots, leaving her trousers and shirt, that shirt that still smelled so much of the Narada, of Nero. She still didn't have the physical strength to stand, but at once Spock took her other hand, knowing what she wanted. True to his word he was still at her side, and though she saw compassion in his eyes she did not see the thing she'd dreaded--pity. She neither needed nor wanted pity, and Spock, dear Spock, knew it.

He helped her to her feet, wordless and reassuring, guiding her to the bathroom. The Enterprise actually had water showers, rather than sonic, which was just as well--Uhura needed the feel of water now, of tangible cleansing.

"Call if you need me," Spock said softly, and, incredibly, bent to kiss her forehead. He knew--of course he did, he was Spock--that she needed some time alone, to deal with her wounds by herself before she decided to share them.

This bathroom was wholly unlike Nero's--clean white, brightly lit. It only made her appearance all the more incongruous; her own reflection startled her. Hair a knotted disaster, neck bruised and bloody, her lip swollen and sore from where Nero had bit her--

--_and she'd liked it, hadn't she, even through her horror, liked hurting him and knowing she was still alive by the taste of his blood and her own--_

Uhura shuddered, shutting her eyes and gripping the sink. Her fingers left faint, bloody prints on the plastic. When she opened them she looked at the single streak of blood on her face, and half fancied she could still feel the heat of his finger. Oh God, what was wrong with her? Even amid everything she'd liked that as well--had almost wanted to return the gesture--had her mind really fractured so much in so short a time?

She drew a deep, slow breath, steeling herself before she took off her shirt. What met her eyes was…worse than she'd expected. Bruises that seemed almost black, scratches and bite-marks, and she winced when she touched one. At least she didn't seem to have broken any bones, during her fall or…or…with Nero.

Her pants were next; at least there was no comparable damage to her legs. The last few days had left her sore in ways she would not think about, now or ever. One bloody hand reached out and turned on the tap, and when she ran her hand beneath the water drips of dull, rusty green stained the smooth white floor.

She winced again when she stepped beneath the spray, hot water stinging in her wounds. She had to wash very carefully, the water running green and red and then, finally, clear. Three shampoos, ignoring how tangled her hair was, and another careful go-over with soap and washcloth. The water felt cleaner and more pure than anything she'd ever known, washing away more than just blood, and she shut her eyes a moment to lean against the wall--

--_and how hard it had been against her back when he'd pinned her there, his hands and his mouth so hot she didn't care, conscious only of his touch and the feel of him inside her and oh God, why couldn't she STOP this--_

Uhura's eyes snapped open again, and a shudder wracked her from head to toe. Not all the warm wetness on her face was water--some of it was tears, tears that would neither cease nor surge. She wished she could really cry--wished she could purge all the inner poison that was drowning her.

Spock had hung a bathrobe on the hook by the door, and when she'd painfully toweled dry she put it on, grateful for how different it was from Nero's robe. With a deep, shivering breath she stepped back out, and found Spock waiting patiently. If her injuries disturbed him, he gave no sign; all he did was rise and pull her to him, wrapping his arms around her and holding her like he never wanted to let go.

"We're safe," he said into her hair. "Both of us. We're on our way home."

She wondered what had happened to the Narada, but didn't have the energy to ask. There wasn't anything she _could _say yet, so she said nothing, even when Spock guided her to the bed and helped her sit. She gave him a questioning look when he turned away, and when he turned back he held a paddle-brush--her own, not Starfleet-issue. All she could give him was a grateful look, turning herself and tossing her hair back over her shoulders.

It felt…nice, nice and simple, the way he drew the brush through her hair, starting careful and slow at the ends, teasing out the snarls one by one. There was a…a _sanity _in his tenderness, reliable and sweet, and Uhura felt something loosen in her chest as he continued. He was only halfway done when a real sob wracked her, finally, all her tangled emotions fighting their way out before they tore her apart. Spock put the brush aside, pulling her to him, and at last she gave herself over wholly to her tears. They went on for a long, long time, until once again sleep took her, deep and sweet and dreamless.

----

Uhura is not going to have an easy time of it for some time yet, I think. Once again, thank you to everyone who is reviewing. J


	9. Part IX: Spock

Finally, I'm a little less mean to both of them. God knows they deserve a break.

----

Spock did not let go of Uhura while she slept. He himself had suffered more trauma these last days than he wanted to admit, to himself or anyone else, and feeling her against him brought him something like peace at last. She was safe now; they were _both _safe, far away from the Narada and all its nightmares.

He hadn't told her what had become of the surviving Romulan crew, nor did he intend to. Those that had remained standing at the last were currently in the brig, on their way to Earth to…he didn't know what. Stand trial, most likely, though how that would work he had no idea. It was highly unlikely the Romulan government would stand up for them; the Narada and its crew had almost been a world unto themselves, with no affiliation to the Empire in this time whatsoever. Given that they had literally declared war on the Federation, the Empire would almost certainly want nothing to do with them, with a potentially galactic-sized war not of their making or design. He could not imagine them wanting to align themselves anywhere near a group of people who had committed such a massive, unprecedented genocide, not with the sort of consequences they would face if they did.

Uhura stirred in her sleep, scattering his thoughts. He did not yet know what lay deep in her mind--all the laws and traditions of Vulcan forbade probing the minds of any who had not given explicit consent--but to his relief she seemed less damaged than he had feared. She was still _Nyota_, however traumatized, and though it might take her years to rid herself of that trauma, he intended to be there every moment she needed him.

He sensed conflict, too, conflict in her surface thoughts she had not managed to bury. Conflict she was deeply afraid he would judge her for, because she herself thought herself horrible for feeling it. Spock was not surprised by it, though; he knew what Stockholm Syndrome was, and though it had not entrenched itself deeply, the seeds had been sown. She might never show nor tell him what Nero had done to her, but she didn't need to. A thing like Stockholm Syndrome developed more rapidly when the captor showed something besides cruelty--it was only logical to assume Nero had done so in one fashion or another. Nyota did not possess the rigidity of mind necessary to resist such a thing, a wall Vulcans held only because they were trained to it from earliest infancy.

And…rape was rape. Moreover, this was rape that had taken all her control away, rape Nero had forced her to actually _enjoy._ He'd destroyed her logic, her rationality and _that _was a horror he could understand all too well. _Pon Farr _had much the same effect, destroying logic and reason and control, though at least in _Pon Farr_ the other participate was there willingly, without coercion. The only thing forcing that destruction of sense was biology, nature, and the mate one went through it with was someone to whom you were bonded, or at the very least did not hate. (Even deeper a secret than _Pon Farr _were the…clinics…Vulcan had to deal with the Time for those who, for whatever reason, were not bonded. He was human enough that his own necessary use of one was somewhat humiliating, though there was no social stigma attached. _Pon Farr _was…_Pon Farr_; you didn't discuss it, you just dealt with it in whatever way you had to.)

And that…raised a troubling problem. If he were ever to marry Nyota, he would have to tell her of the Time, and after what she'd just gone through he wasn't sure she could endure anything like it again, even with one she loved. Human minds that had gone through massive distress, he knew, were often subject to things called 'flashbacks', and though he did not fully understand that term he did know they could be horrible. The thought of causing Nyota pain…well. It would be some years yet before his next Time; until it grew closer, speculation as to her potential reaction would be illogical.

She stirred again, and he sensed the unhappiness in her dreams. Very gently, careful not to wake her, he touched her face and fed her a measure of tranquility, calming her sleeping thoughts as best he could. It must have worked--she stilled, her tense expression smoothing into something more peaceful, and he stroked her damp hair. Their hasty departure from Earth meant she'd had to wash it with Starfleet shampoo rather than her own personal sort, but it was still better than the harsh stuff on the Narada. The lack of the normal fruity scent meant all he smelled was pure Nyota, soft and human.

Spock sat with her for several hours--three hours and fourteen minutes, his internal time sense told him--before she woke again, blinking sleepily up at him. She tensed, but only for a moment, immediately relaxing once she realized where she was.

"How are you?" he asked, brushing an errant strand of hair from her forehead. Her answer heartened him.

"Better," she said softly, and he could tell by her voice she meant it--to a point. Waking had stirred up all her earlier confusion, and she shut her eyes again--not daring to look at him, he realized, a thought that gave him pain. The thought that she was afraid to share it with him--that she feared his judgment--hurt him deeply. It was not precisely a mistrust of him, he knew, but a mistrust of herself, of the inner reactions she so feared and loathed. Oh, how he hated that Nero had done that to her, had so twisted her mind that she no longer trusted her own thoughts.

"Talk to me, Nyota," he said gently. "You know I will not judge you."

Uhura curled up in his arms, her head against his shoulder. "He…there was again, in his quarters, and there were drugs but he _offered _them, he didn't force them on me, and…and…"

She swallowed thickly. "And I took them because I wasn't strong enough to go through all that again without them--too damn _weak _to just let him use me that way in my right mind. And I couldn't even fight him, because I was so afraid of what he'd do to you if I did--what he might have done anyway no matter what I gave him." Her breath hitched in a dry sob, shaking now in his arms. "And then later--oh God, _later _there weren't any drugs because I tried to kill him and fight him and he did it _anyway, _and--and--Goddammit, Spock, I _liked _it."

She sat up to look at him then, searching his eyes, but they held only compassion. His rage at Nero was buried carefully deep where she would not see it, lest she misread it as anger at her. Very lightly he touched her hand, trying to soothe her a little. _There is more, isn't there?_

She bit her swollen lip, and nodded. Her level of distress was so great she couldn't even think coherently--all she could do was deluge him with memories, emotions, so fiercely that he mentally staggered.

--_she didn't want to remember, _did not want to remember, _but she couldn't block the phantom feel of Nero's hands, the hot, stinging copper-taste when he kissed her, drawing her all unwilling from her need to hurt him and replacing it with desire of a very different sort. The unbearable heat and need within her that she could not stop--that eventually she didn't _want _to stop--and then terrible, wonderful, blinding ecstasy and the paradoxical tenderness of his near-brutality. The burn of his tears on her shoulder, the heat of his neck against her forehead, his fingers twined almost gently in her hair. Wondering, then, for the first time what he used to be, how grief and anger had so changed him._

_And then pity, the pity that had come when he was atop her once more, stroking her face with what was now undeniable gentleness, and God help her she'd _returned _it, breathed in the scent of him and not flinched from the rough stubble of his cheek against hers. And then how much she'd wished to die, to escape him and all he'd stirred in her--things she did not have the strength to live with. How much she hoped that if she _did _die it would help or at least not hurt anyone else, if she and Nero did not live to see another day._

_And more, still more, her rage and hurt as she hurried down to join the battle below, the bloodlust that drove her to cold, calculated murder--and the hesitation she'd felt when she finally found him. Too many reasons she wanted him dead, for his sake as well as her own, and how weirdly tender his last touch to her cheek. How she couldn't forget, however much she wanted to--and, deep, so deep she refused to acknowledge it, the part that _didn't _want to forget. And how very ashamed that made her, how horrible a person she now believed she was._

It broke off abruptly, leaving Spock reeling. The strength of her emotion alone knocked him mentally backward, and for several moments he could do nothing save try to process that flood of memory.

Once he had he realized Nyota was crying, hot tears of pain and shame, and he lifted her face to kiss her forehead. Beneath all that tangle and confusion lay a fathomless aquifer of love, so deep none of her horror had touched it--the thing that had kept her going through everything, that had first made her willing to do anything to keep him safe and unharmed.

"You are _not _weak," he said, holding her eyes with his. "Do not ever think it for a moment. You are my strong Nyota, and I love you."

It was the first time he had ever said it aloud, and she had to know he meant it, for the sheer, uncompromising depth of that feeling passed from his mind to hers. "I will always love you, no matter what. Do not fault your confusion, for at its root is a thing I have loved you for since I met you--compassion. It is in your nature to search for what is good in a person, _any _person, and you found the only echo of what was left within Nero."

He sat back to look at her again, stroking her cheek. "And you are not evil, you are _human_. It is the nature of humanity to wish some sort of vengeance for so large a wrong. You avenged yourself, but you released him as well--you know that."

She swallowed again, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. "I'll never forgive him, though," she whispered. "I _can't_."

"That is no weakness, either," Spock said softly. "I never will. For what he has done to both of us."

He kissed her forehead again. "You will never forget, either but in time better memories will crowd out the bad. I will give you as many as I can."

Uhura shuddered--a good shudder this time, letting all that was terrible pass through and beyond her, and rested her head against his chest once more.

"When you are ready, I would like to call Doctor McCoy," he said, stroking her hair. "You know he will say nothing to anyone."

She nodded, curling up against him. "I don't want his pity," she breathed. "I don't want _anyone's_ pity."

He wrapped his arms around her. "As I understand it, human pity is given to one who is helpless," he murmured. "One who is a victim. You proved in front of the entire crew you are neither." Though he could not understand _why _her spectacular and very public execution of Nero would be reckoned so awesomely daunting to the human crew, he had already seen its effects. No one would pity her--no one, he thought, would dare.

----

It was some time before he called Doctor McCoy. They were nearly home, but he wanted McCoy to look at her before they reached orbit--Nyota, he thought, would not wish to go to Starfleet's hospital, for she would not want to answer the questions that would arise. She'd dressed by then, soft ship-knits rather than her uniform, her hair dry and smooth. Her eyes were steady when the doctor entered, and Spock thought that she must have noticed the same thing he did--the deference with which McCoy treated her, the respect. No, what he offered was most definitely not pity.

He treated her injuries with respectful quiet, making no comment on the scratches and bites, the wrist that turned out to be cracked, not merely sprained. The only thing he said, apart from requests to hold still or keep her hair out of the way, was, "Are you hurt…anywhere else?"

Uhura met his eyes steadily. "Not enough to need medical attention," she said, and McCoy left it at that. He was perceptive enough to leave all the mental and emotional work to Spock, as ironic as it struck him.

"Tell me," Spock said, when the doctor had left, "when we reach Earth, what is it you wish to do? Where is it you would go?"

"Where do _you _want to go?" she countered, and he heard the concern in her voice--her own…problems…had apparently not blinded her to the personal loss he'd suffered himself. They were very much in this together, he thought, in more ways than one.

"I…do not know," he admitted. "Until now I have thought only of our immediate destination, without regard as to where to go from there. Logically I should resign and assist in the resettlement of what of my people remain, but in our current situation that logic no longer applies." He held her hands, cool in his own. "My mother would tell me to follow my intuition, but just now it tells me nothing. Perhaps we should follow yours instead."

That didn't quite make her smile, but the expression in her eyes softened. "I don't know yet, either. Maybe we'll just have to figure it out when we get there."

---

I am such a damn sap, I swear. They're both far from okay, but they'll get there eventually. Yet again, thank you all my loyal reviewers. :)


	10. Part X: Uhura

More emotional roller-coasters for them both, especially Uhura. Life is not easy yet, but at least it's getting a bit better for them.

----

Uhura really didn't know what to do when they finally reached Earth.

Her quarters were out of the question--they were too stark a reminder that Gaila was dead, that Nero had taken her, too. So much of their class, gone in one fell swoop…it would be a damn small graduation, this year.

Spock's quarters were big enough for two, though, and nobody raised any objections when she had her things moved in there. Her Starfleet superiors treated her with the same deference as the crew of the Enterprise, and eventually it made her angry. Everything everyone else had done--the crew who had fought and died, Kirk and Spock who had made their escape possible--were treated as simply a matter of course, but stab a Romulan to death and by God, you were somebody!

"I don't want to be their damned figurehead," she stormed, pacing Spock's tidy quarters. "None of that would have been possible in the first place if it wasn't for you and Kirk, but what I did was…was _showy_, and they want to use that. _Why?_"

"Because it was showy," Spock said calmly. "We will all receive our commendations, but the elevation of a group does not carry the psychological weight of that of a single individual. A group, even a small one, is more abstract a concept than an individual."

It made perfect sense. Of course it did, but that didn't mean she had to _like _it. "So what, you think I should accept this?" She flopped on the bed beside him and put her head in her hands, rubbing her temples.

"That is entirely your decision." His warm fingers took over massaging her temples. "There are merits and flaws to both acceptance and rejection. Acceptance would appear well in the eyes of Starfleet and the Federation at large, and would certainly advance your career, but against that weigh your personal convictions." Uhura felt relaxation spread from her temples all down her face, her neck, her shoulders. "I will support you whichever you choose. To a Vulcan acceptance would be most logical, but you are human--you must do what you feel is best for you, and if that means declining you should not hesitate to do so."

"That's hardly an answer," she pointed out, but the faintest fleeting ghost of a smile crossed her face. "I think I'll sleep on it."

And she did, curled up against Spock's warm body. Amazingly until now she had not dreamed, but she did now--of the Narada, of course, its complex maze of platforms suspended over a drop so great it seemed an abyss. It was completely deserted, silent but for the tread of her booted feet--silent but expectant, watchful. She had the Teral'n in her hand--her right hand, holding it without pain. Nothing hurt here, none of the lingering wounds she still bore in the waking world.

And she wasn't afraid. This wasn't the real Narada, but the Narada-in-her-head, and she would not be afraid of it, not while she was still half-conscious of Spock beside her, safe and sound. No matter the price, she'd got what she wanted, what she'd gone through hell for. Yes, she had scars, only some of which were tangible, but they hadn't killed her and she wouldn't let him.

And yet…she'd killed. God knew Nero had deserved it, and she'd certainly done him a twisted sort of favor, but the fact remained that she'd taken another sentient being's life. She'd watched the life drain out of his eyes, replaced by glassy death, and the memory of that as much as all he'd done to her hovered over her shoulder like a malignant crow. Uhura might not be afraid, but that didn't mean she didn't know guilt--guilt, and a bizarre sort of grief.

But in a way she treasured that guilt, because though she'd killed in cold blood, it differentiated her from Nero. Nero, who had forgotten the meaning of the word before she'd been born. Uhura was still herself, still whole even if she _had _cracked a little--she'd cracked, but hadn't broken, and neither had Spock. Spock, who had lost so much more than her yet who stood steadfastly by her now. She had to return that as much as she was able, to be there for him if nothing else. In time he would open up to her as well, would share his own grief in his understated way, and she would be there when it happened. She would not stay in this Narada-in-her-head, not when there was so much work ahead of both of them.

She shut her eyes, and when she opened them she found herself on the bridge of the Enterprise--just as deserted, but worlds away from the Narada. This ship, she was sure, would become her home in time--and that settled her question, her difficulty, and with that she slipped back into dreamlessness.

----

When she woke she found Spock already awake, his chin rested atop her head. She lay still, warm and relaxed, breathing in the clean scent of him As all her waking had been since she'd left the Narada, the peace it brought seemed a small miracle. To wake without fear, beside the one she'd been most afraid for…it was a feeling she would never take for granted for the rest of her life.

"You dreamed," he said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. It was not a question.

"I did. And…I think I'll take that medal, or whatever it is. If the Federation wants a figurehead for a while, I guess I can give them one. It's not like somebody else won't surpass it soon enough anyway." What she did not say was that it would surely piss the Romulans off to no end--they might distance themselves from Nero for political reasons, but having it touted so publicly that humans had taken out someone who would essentially be a private hero for destroying long-hated Vulcan would…gall, certainly. "How are you doing yourself?

Spock was honest with her as he would be to no one else. "I…hurt," he said, sounding almost confused. "I knew anger and pain as a child, but…this is…different."

Of course it was, Uhura thought. He'd just lost his mother, lost his entire _planet_; few people in known history had such a reason for potentially soul-destroying grief.

_Except Nero._

Well, yes, Nero had suffered exactly the same loss--that had been the entire point of his destruction of Vulcan. The difference lay in the fact that Spock would never become an omnicidal maniac because of it. Therein lay the vast distinction between Vulcans and Romulans, and though Uhura was sometimes exasperated by the Vulcan ideal of pure logic, it did make certain they weren't as violently, almost insanely militaristic as their long-sundered cousins. One such force in the galaxy was enough, except….

…except now the Romulans no longer had that balancing force, that yin to their yang. Vulcan and Earth had always balanced out the Romulan and Klingon Empires, and now Vulcan was gone. It would drag Andoria and Telleria deeper into the politics of the Federation than they would like…damn. She had to stop thinking about this before it drove her mad. She and Spock had enough on their plates right now.

"It's better that you do," she said, running her fingers along his jaw. "Better that you let it all out, however…un-Vulcan it might be. Don't bottle it inside and call it logical. Hurt _is _logical, right now."

He shut his eyes, leaning into her touch, and Uhura wondered what he was thinking. He was…Spock; he would tell her in his own time, when he felt he could. Vulcans were legendary for their eloquence--he would not speak until he could do so in a coherent fashion. All she could do was wait until he did, and let him know she was there.

"If I were to return to teaching part-time, would that be all right with you?" he asked at last, opening his eyes. "I find myself…in need of work, but if it would cause you pain I will wait."

She thought about that a long while in silence. She herself couldn't imagine when she'd be fully fit to return to school--she had to guard against pushing herself too hard too soon, or she'd only crack all over again. Spock, though, was Vulcan--idleness did not come easy to his nature.

"If you need it, then yes," she said at last. "I don't know what I'll do myself yet, but I should do _something _too, or I'll just sit here and…and stew over it." She didn't really want any more public attention than she was likely to get anyway, but there had to be some simple work she could do. They both were in such a state that sooner or later they would _need _outside interaction, or they'd both feed one another's grief like an ouroboros.

He sat up, taking her hand. "I would like to teach you meditation before then," he said. "All my life I have found it helps focus and clarify the mind--it may help you keep your sense of self, when things grow too difficult."

"Could a human even learn Vulcan meditation?" Uhura asked doubtfully, sitting up as well.

"My mother did," Spock said softly, "and I believe you could as well. It is…soothing is the only way I may describe it."

"All right," she agreed, a tad less reluctantly. "Let me shower first, okay?"

"I must prepare the room anyway," he said as she rose. "You are not allergic to incense?"

"Not that I know of."

"Good. I should have everything prepared by the time you are through."

Showering still seemed an immense luxury--lots of hot water and soap. Spock must have been shocked by what he would see as a gross waste of water, but Uhura was glad he'd not swapped it out for a sonic shower. Her very human senses still insisted water was the only thing that could really cleanse.

Her bumps and bruises were fading fast, and the doctors had assured her none of her…other…wounds would scar, for which she was grateful. She needed no tangible reminders, thank you very much.

Which was why she could not yet bring herself to let Spock touch her in any way more than simply affectionate, nor to touch him in return. He was right about humans and their flashbacks, and there could well be flashbacks of a sort she did _not _want to have--especially not with Spock. It would probably be some time before she'd be willing to risk it, but Spock would understand. He always understood.

Soap, washcloth, shampoo, conditioner, mind carefully blank. Even touching her own body was somewhat traumatizing, after the way it had been so used. Between her legs still hurt from so much…um…yeah…in such a short period of time, but she wouldn't think about _that _either. Think of better things, of Spock and home and this meditation he was convinced she was capable of. That, and nothing else.

That she firmly did while she dried off and donned her bathrobe, emerging into a dimly-lit room hazy with sharp, sweet incense. The firepot, which she had rarely seen Spock use, glowed cherry-red in the dimness, radiating heat. Spock himself sat cross-legged in a garment she'd never seen--a dark meditation robe, plain and simple.

Uhura sat across from him, suddenly almost nervous. The fumes from the incense seemed to envelop her in a warm, pleasant fog, and when Spock laid his hand on her face in preparation for a mind-meld, she didn't draw away. Very rarely had she done this with him, either, because the sensation it produced was so damn _powerful _it could be overwhelming.

It wasn't now, though--not quite, anyway. It was strong, but not overpowering, and she felt her thoughts center around Spock's as though pulled by gravity.

_My mind to your mind_. The words drifted through her, felt but unheard. _My thoughts to your thoughts. _There was a calmness, a serenity in those few words that seemed to pervade her entire being. Maybe this wasn't such a bad idea after all. _You are safe and whole, yourself and always yourself. Nothing here may harm you._

And she believed it--believed it implicitly, and with that belief her breathing slowed into a gentle, steady rhythm, deep and calm.

_Your mind is your own, always. Do not be afraid of it--of anything you might find there. In the end you will come to master your thoughts, and no one--not even me--will undo that._

She felt herself sinking deeper into…she didn't even know what--some part of her hitherto unexplored, following Spock's voice. It really _was _soothing, in away she would not have believed possible, sinking without drowning, without fear.

And then, quite abruptly, she slammed into an alien presence, a foreign invader who had no right to lurk so deeply within her mind. Hitting it was like crashing onto concrete, jarring, agonizing, and she reacted far before she could think, in the only way she _could _react.

Uhura screamed.

----

Because I wasn't mean enough to them both already. :P Spock will know immediately what the hell is going on, though Uhura does not--and won't be happy when she finds out.


	11. Part XI: Spock

Man, this thing started as a one-off response to a kink prompt--it's kind of hard for me to believe it's seriously turning into a legitimate fanfic. Even I'm not entirely sure what it's doing now; I'm just writing it down as it comes along and hoping it will eventually stop eating my brain. I had no idea I'd get the kind of feedback you guys are giving me, so thank you, all of you, for making my day every time I open my e-mail. :)

----

The meditation had been going so well up to this point.

Spock had been right--Nyota had a natural aptitude for it. She was ordinarily a calm enough person that it came as no surprise she had little difficulty following his guidance, letting him gently steer her rather than firmly leading. It was a sense of healing for both of them--until they ran smack into the thing that ought to have been impossible.

Nyota could have no idea what it was, but _he _recognized it easily enough, and it was so unexpected it actually managed to wholly shock him. It should have been impossible, but quite obviously it wasn't--no wonder she'd screamed; the human mind simply wasn't built to handle such a thing. Many _Vulcans _couldn't do it.

As gently as he could--which wasn't very, under the circumstances--he tried to draw her out before she went completely insane. She was more than willing to help him, even if she didn't know what she was doing--all she knew was that she wanted to flee this thing so unfortunately trapped in her own head.

"What the hell--what the _hell_--Spock, what _is _it? And get it _out!_"

He grabbed her hands, trying to steady her and largely failing. "I cannot," he said. "We must see one of the Elders--they alone are capable of extracting…what you currently bear."

Her eyes were huge, wide and shocky--and angry. "What _is _it?" she demanded again, her fingers closing hard over his, as though gripping a lifeline.

"That is…difficult to explain," he said, searching for the right words. "It is as Vulcan thing, one I had thought lost to the Romulans along with telepathy."

Spock drew her close, letting her shiver. "Vulcans have a thing called a _katra_," he said, smoothing her hair. "The closest human equivalent of the word would be 'soul'. It holds all that we are--our thoughts, our memories, everything that makes us ourselves. Traditionally when we die someone takes our _katra _and bears it to the Hall of Ancient Thought on Mount Seleya--or did, anyway," he added. All those centuries of minds lost, along with the rest of Vulcan. "They are passed through touch, and Nero…touched you before he died."

Uhura sat back, glaring--not at him, he realized; at Fate in general. "Are you trying to tell me I've got Nero's _soul _rattling around in my head?" she demanded.

He took her hands again. "I cannot be certain," he said evenly, "but all evidence suggests it. I would like to take you to see my father--his mental disciplines are superior to mine. He can ascertain if this is indeed the case, and extract it if necessary."

"And do _what _with it?" she asked, a little hysterically.

That…was a good question. There was certainly no Hall of Ancient Thought on Earth, and Vulcan ethics forbade the destruction of a _katra_, any _katra, _no matter the person it had come from.

"That will be his duty to decide," Spock said at last. "This is not a thing any human should bear--especially you. Such decisions are the province of the Elders." Yes, this was one problem he would happily pass on. He couldn't help but wonder what unhappy chance had left Nero with that ability, had led him to touch Nyota the moment he died--or if Nero had even known what he was doing. The notion of Fate was illogical, but that did not, he thought, make it untrue. Unfortunately.

As he had done so many times in the last days, he had to actively force his bio-controls, to regulate his breathing and heartbeat. He didn't know what this meant, nor what its consequences might be, but speculation with so little data was as illogical as the idea of Fate. When they knew more, then perhaps he would know how to proceed.

"Would you be willing to see my father?" he asked, when he knew his voice would be steady.

"If he can get this thing out of my head, oh God yes," Uhura said vehemently. "He won't…tell anybody, will he?"

"Of course not. He may need to consult with the other Elders, but you can be sure it will go no further. This is a deeply private matter for all of us; they will do everything they can in silence." And maybe, he thought, they'd be forced to re-evaluate their opinion of humans. Spock could only guess what life on Vulcan must have been like for his mother, a world that largely considered humans an inferior life-form. She must have loved his father very much to be willing to endure it.

But Nyota…the very idea of a human bearing a _katra _was as unbelievable as the thought of a Romulan _having _one, yet both were obviously true. The last days had made him all too aware of the strength of her mind, but this…had he not seen it for himself, he would not have believed it.

And…for himself, it would be good to see his father--the father that shared his particular grief. Spock had suffered Sarek's disapproval ever since he'd joined Starfleet--little in his life had surprised him like his father's admission of gratitude for him, his half-breed son. It was as startling as his admitting he'd loved Spock's mother; 'love' was not a word known on Vulcan, or so he'd thought. Perhaps his father was more human than he'd let on--perhaps his time among them as Ambassador had rubbed off on him. Whatever the case, he shared his son's grief, and of all the Elders would best understand what to do for Nyota. There was no altering what had happened to Vulcan, to Amanda; this was a problem that could be dealt with, a thing that might focus them both.

She drew a deep breath, and he could feel her trying to calm herself. "Okay," she said. "Let's see your father. I'm not going to be able to do anything until this…this…_this _is out of my head. It--he--can't, I don't know, _possess _me or anything, can it? Take me over without my knowing it?"

He squeezed her hands. "I do not know," he said carefully. "To my knowledge, you are the first human to ever bear a _katra_; what it will do to you is unknown, for there is no precedent. Which is why we should extract it as soon as possible." It was even quite logical to assume that would be somewhat easily accomplished, given that all the Elders of Vulcan would be there to offer consultation if needed. "If you are ready, we should both dress, and I will call my father."

Uhura nodded, pulling out clothes while he tidied away his meditational tools--civilian clothes, jeans and a plain black shirt. So far she had steadfastly avoided her uniforms, which Spock found…ominous, somehow. No time for that--there was too much to do now.

He rang the Vulcan Embassy, where all the Elders were staying while younger surviving Vulcans sought out a potential new home. His father looked…haggard, decades older than his eighty years. In a way Spock hated to have to disturb him, but on the other hand a concrete problem to be solved might be good for him.

"Peace and long life, Spock," Sarek said gravely. He even sounded tired.

"And to you, Father. I have…something of a problem, which I would greatly appreciate your help in solving. I cannot do it on my own."

One of Sarek's eyebrows lifted--a gesture his son had inherited perfectly. "How may I assist you?"

Spock told him what had happened during the meditation, what he was sure was behind it.

"I can think of no other explanation," he said, when he was finished. "Logically it should be impossible, but I saw it in Nyota's mind. It can be nothing else."

Sarek was silent nearly a minute, considering, and Spock knew he was wondering what his son had already thought of--what the hell they were to do with the thing once it was out of Nyota's head.

"You should both come here as soon as possible," he said at last. "I would see this for myself, and consult the others if it exceeds my capacity."

"Thank you, Father." Ordinarily Sarek would have rebuked him with a claim that one did not thank logic; now, though, he used a more human phrase.

"You are welcome. We will do what we can."

"Live long and prosper, Father."

He 'd signed off by the time Nyota was finished--her hair drawn severely back, her face still free of makeup.

"My father says we can see him at once," he said, moving to her and taking her hands. "With…luck…we may relieve you of this today." The word 'luck' still sat ill with him, but it was a word humans--including Nyota--seemed to set much store by.

Fortunately, nobody seemed to notice when they left, taking a flitter from the faculty pool to the Vulcan Embassy. The morning was clear and cool, traffic still light, and the sun was just clearing the rooftops when they were waved through the Embassy gates.

It had been years since Spock had been here, but it hadn't changed much. The floor was smooth red Vulcan sandstone, the walls paneled in dark wood--warmer than the weather outside, but not nearly so hot as Vulcan, so that outworlder visitors weren't uncomfortable.

Sorel, one of the aids who had already been at the Embassy before Vulcan was destroyed, met them in the foyer and led them back to the Ambassador's suite. Spock could sense Nyota's curiosity even through the rest of her tumultuous emotions; the only real Vulcan things were his, and the Embassy was an echo of what the planet had been.

Sorel obviously didn't know why they were here, but being Vulcan he wasn't about to ask. He left at once when Sarek answered the door, and the pair stepped into his rooms.

They were very…Vulcan. Spock's quarters were still fundamentally human, aside from his personal possessions, but this was a space designed for and by its inhabitants, and an unexpected but quite powerful pang of homesickness stabbed through him. It had been years since he'd been home, and now he could never go there again--the red sands of his homeworld were lost forever, this place their only remainder. The last bastion of Vulcan culture, at least until they could resettle somewhere else--but for all who had known Vulcan, nowhere else would ever truly be home. Only the generations to come, who had never seen their planet of origin, would be at home anywhere else. What, he wondered, as he and Nyota sat on a low sofa, would become of his people then? Lacking the harsh sun of their world, would they become, in the end, like the Romulans? He was glad he would not live so long as to find out. Some things were better left unknown.

Sarek sat across from them, pouring each a tall glass of cool water according to Vulcan custom. "Spock has told me of your difficulty," he said to Nyota. "Would you permit me your thoughts, that I might see for myself?"

Spock felt her tense beside him, and thought he knew why. For all any of them knew, a mind-meld would make her feel that alien force again, and he could not fault her at all for her reticence. After a moment, though, she nodded, and followed Sarek when he beckoned her to face him sitting on the floor. Spock watched in silence; he had no worry for Nyota just now, given his father's level of mental precision. Somehow he managed to remain patient, trying to ignore all the small parts of his surroundings that tried to distract him with memories that had no place in the current moment.

The meld went on even longer than he'd expected; his father had to be being very thorough in his search, hunting out the very root of her unfortunate mental passenger. Sweat stood out at her temples, and Spock had to make himself remain still, serene, keeping his own thoughts from free-floating and distracting either of them. At least this time she wasn't screaming.

Nor did she, even when Sarek drew his hand from her face and opened his eyes. His expression was unreadable, even to Spock, and that could not be a good sign.

"I must call the others," he said, which only increased Spock's misgivings.

"Is it a _katra?_" he asked, as his father rose.

"It is. And it does not want to be removed." Sarek went to a tall wooden cabinet near the wide window, taking out a dark, cut-glass bottle and a small cup.

"Drink this, Nyota," he said, pouring some--even at that distance Spock could smell the spicy fragrance of n'deth--a kind of drink distilled from a particular moss, very rare on Vulcan. "It will help clarify your mind."

Uhura started violently when she smelled it, her eyes going wide as she backed away before she could help it. Sarek gave her a questioning look.

"Nero drugged her," Spock said softly, in explanation. He watched her fight a shudder, barely winning.

"And it smelled a lot like that," she added, taking it with a mostly steady hand. "It…what do you mean, clarify my mind?"

Spock would swear his father was looking at her with something like compassion. "It will not alter your faculties in any way," he assured her. "Your mind is tense, and that tension allows the _katra _to root more deeply, tangling it into your thoughts. This will ease that."

She still looked doubtful, but gamely drank it anyway, grimacing a little at the taste. Sarek took the cup from her.

"I will return soon," he promised, and left the two of them alone.

"What does he mean, my mind is tense?" she asked, sitting beside Spock. "That I'm stressed?"

"In a sense, yes. There is something in it that does not belong there, and its attempts at rejecting that thing are only entrenching it further. It is an instinctive reaction that the n'deth will counter."

Uhura took his hand. "I don't…think I like the thought of all of them digging around in my brain," she whispered. "There's so much…so much stuff I don't want anyone to ever see." She looked up at him. "Even you. I just want to forget it, and to have other people _know_--"

She broke off, but Spock knew her well enough to fill in the blanks. It was judgment she feared, and given the level of shame she still attached to all that had happened on the Narada, he couldn't blame her.

"You mean your loss of control," he said gently, "what the drugs did to you?"

Uhura nodded.

"Believe me when I say they will pass no judgment for that," he said, "and when we return home, I will tell you why." The idea of _Pon Farr _might disturb her, but then again, knowing others went through something very like what she had might make the idea a little less shameful.

She cast him a curious look, but before she could ask, the door opened again, and she swallowed.

The Elders had arrived.

----

YES I WENT THERE. I couldn't help it. (Elizawriter, I did actually consider what you were afraid of, but even I'm not _that _mean…besides, onimosity gave me a whole different story idea where that would fit much better.) :)

I had planned on this thing not being more than one or two chapters longer, but it looks like it's decided it wants to keep growing. Spock, Uhura, and, ironically, Nero's _katra_, have some rough ground ahead, as do all the surviving Vulcans (including Spock Prime, who we will see soon enough). Yet again, thank you to all who are reviewing, and I'm glad you like it.


	12. Part XII: Uhura

I just can't seem to give over being mean to them, apparently, though there is some good in this chapter, too--some twisted, some not. God knows it's long enough, jeeze.

----

Uhura was not easily daunted, but facing what remained of the Vulcan High Council would daunt _anybody_. Even if they were trying to help her with something she…very much needed help with.

A tiny, almost doll-like old woman whose face was made up of a thousand wrinkles was carried in on a litter. If she looked that old for a Vulcan, it meant she had to be pushing three hundred, and with a jolt Uhura realized she must be T'Pau. Oh, _God._

It was confirmed by Sarek, whose deferential treatment of the old lady only made Uhura even more nervous. "Nyota, this is T'Pau of Vulcan, Eldest of our Elders.

Somehow regaining self-possession, she raised her right hand in the taal. "Peace and long life, T'Pau."

The woman arched an eyebrow before returning the greeting. "Let me see thy mind, child," she said, without further preamble, and with an inward quail Uhura knelt so she could lay a gnarled hand on her face.

_This was nothing like a meld with either Spock or Sarek. This was a woman of such vast experience that even so intimate a meld was second nature, something that required no great strength or effort._

'_Be still, child. I will not hurt thee.'_

'_I know.' And she did; Vulcan or not, T'Pau's mind was more than a thing of pure logic--warmer, like the lost sun of Vulcan. Between that and whatever the hell was in the n'deth juice, Uhura felt no need to fight._

_Deeper into her mind that warmth delved, down past the memories she did not want to share, until it hit that horrible _thing_, alien as a tumor, that clung hard and would not let go. T'Pau said nothing more, but Uhura could feel her doing…something. What, she didn't know, but she could _feel _things shifting in her head, until finally the old woman's hand left her face, and she opened her eyes._

"I would speak with her alone," T'Pau said, a little imperiously, and the others moved at once. Uhura glanced at Spock, who gave her a reassuring lift of an eyebrow.

"He will return, child," T'Pau said, catching that look. Not until they were all gone did she speak again.

"Thee did not know of this," she said, and it was not a question.

Uhura shook her head. "Not at all. I couldn't feel anything until Spock tried to teach me to meditate, and…ran into it." She had to think of the _katra _as 'it'; thinking of it as Nero would drive her insane. As if all the other shit he'd done to her hadn't been violating enough…

"We do not know nearly enough about our Romulan cousins," the old lady said, shaking her head. "Thee should not have this, child. I think the only reason thee does is because of the level of psychic trauma thee endured prior to Nero's death. He does not want to leave thy mind, and thy mind itself is helping him stay there."

Uhura's eyebrows shot up. She barely bit back an astonished return, settling for a quiet, "What do you mean?"

T'Pau's cool Vulcan eyes grew a shade less cool. "Thee carries great guilt," she said. "It hovers around thy mind like a cloud. Thee hated him and thee killed him, and it is that guilt that keeps him in thy head now."

"How do you know what--"

"--guilt is?" T'Pau finished. "We do feel. Spock should have taught thee that much. Mastery of emotion does not mean its destruction unless one is _kholinaru_, and few enough of our race truly attain it. Thee are filled with guilt and shame, confusion, and until it has ebbed there is little even I can do. Were I to extract Nero's _katra _now, the damage it would do would leave thee mad."

Of course. Of _course_. As if all the rest hadn't been bad enough--as if it wasn't bad enough she'd had to kill him to escape him, now there was _this_. She still _hadn't _escaped him, and now he was violating her far worse than he ever had alive.

"So I can't get rid of him until I don't feel guilty anymore?" she asked softly. "I…don't know how to do that. I mean, I _killed _him." And she'd wanted to do it, there was no doubt about that; wanted it so much her very soul had burned with it. Even now, she couldn't honestly say she'd not do it again, if she had a chance to go back in time--she would have just made sure he didn't _touch _her before he died. Anger welled in her at that, sheer red rage at the thought that he'd found a way to haunt her still--literally, she thought bitterly.

"There is hatred in thee, too," T'Pau said, and Uhura wondered if she'd felt it even without a meld. "Hatred alien to thy nature. Permit me thy memories, Nyota."

It was the first time the old woman had called her by her real name, and Uhura quailed.

"I--there are--you don't want to see them," she said hoarsely, horror washing over her in one hot-cold wave. "They--he--" The thought of this formidable, self-controlled Vulcan seeing--experiencing--what had happened to her, what she herself had done…it was a sort of humiliation not to be borne. And she felt weak, so _weak _because of it.

"I know objectively what happened to thee, child," T'Pau said, a little impatiently, "and I see there are a few things about Vulcan nature Spock has never told thee. Shame is illogical, Nyota, especially shame for things one cannot undo."

Shame might be illogical, but that didn't make it any less real. Uhura swallowed, and hoped like hell she wouldn't cry.

"All right," she said, reluctantly, completely convinced this would only end horribly. T'Pau laid her hand on Uhura's face again, and saw--

--_everything._

_That place in the hold, Nero's interrogation-torture-whatever room, too hot and too bright, and the sheer mind-numbing terror she'd felt when two Romulans had dragged her there. Terror made even worse by Nero himself--too tall, too inhumanly strong, and far too insane. Convinced she would die there eventually, ashamed she should be so afraid of what might happen first. An officer should know better, should be _stronger_._

_And Spock, clear lines of panic lacing around her first sight of him, a certainty they would both die and there was nothing she could do to save him. Helplessness, impotent fury _at _that helplessness, knowing how useless her human strength would be._

_And the drugs--oh God, how could she let this woman see and feel what those drugs had done to her? What _Nero _had done, what he'd made her feel and made her _want_, however wrong it was, and how much that drug had made her want nothing more than to touch him, to be touched--how she hated him but hadn't even cared, in that moment, until all thought faded._

_Then the horror of waking in a bed not her own, in a robe not her own, horribly aware of the warm presence beside her, and knowing, _knowing _it wasn't over, that she somehow had to endure it all again. And she'd copped out and taken the drugs, let him make her enjoy it because she was too afraid not to. How much she _had _enjoyed it, even though what of her could still think had loathed both him and herself._

_Then, afterward, jagged incoherent thoughts of violence before she'd slept--thoughts not normally at home in her head. Even in sleep they'd become dreams of murder, of complete revenge, and how carefully she'd pried her ultimately useless weapon from the bathroom, gripping it even while she slept again. Oh, how utter hatred had settled in her chest like a burning ball, rage that followed her back into her dreams, until she woke again, only to fail in her task._

_And…and…her thoughts tried to fragment from there, to avoid any memory of what they'd both done afterward. Even now she didn't understand _why--_she'd started just to hurt him, to inflict as much damage as she could within the one venue he wouldn't kill her for, but then she'd _liked _it and God, what had that turned her into?_

'_Thee was affirming thee was alive.' T'Pau's voice cut through her miserable self-loathing. 'It is not a thing a Vulcan would do, but humans are hardly alone in that response. The mind does very strange things under great stress. Thee has a strong will for a human, but thee are still only human.' There was condescension in her tone, but not so much as Uhura might have expected. 'Thee also is glad thee killed him, whatever thy grief, and that too is human. A Vulcan thinks not of revenge, but thee is not Vulcan.'_

_Uhura knew _that _all too well. 'If I had been, I would have been strong enough to kill him as soon as he set me free.'_

'_If thee was Vulcan,' T'Pau said, a little reprovingly, 'thee would not have done it.'_

'_Spock would have. I know he wanted to.'_

'_Spock is half human.' The words were disparaging, but Uhura would swear there was some measure of affection in there as well. T'Pau was his godmother, wasn't she, or whatever the Vulcan equivalent was? 'And even a Vulcan would do more for a bondmate than for themselves. Thee are not bonded, but in his mind thee are.'_

_That…did not surprise her, actually. 'It's why I…he's why I did everything I did, so he wouldn't get hurt--so Nero wouldn't kill him, or worse.'_

'_I know. He knows. And Nero knows, too.'_

That _startled her. 'You know what he's thinking?'_

'_He is very awake within thy mind. Thee must speak with him before he may be removed.'_

_That made Uhura twitch. '_Speak _with him? How? And why?'_

'_Spock has taught thee the rudiments of meditation, child. Thee must do this alone, without his or anyone else's help. Nero's mind is as restless as yours--in death he knows no peace, and will not move on until he does.'_

'_Don't tell me he thinks he feels guilty,' Uhura said, the words nearly a snarl._

'_He does, among many things. He was not sane then and he is not now, but still he feels.' There was clear disapproval now. 'We Vulcans mastered our emotions because they run too deeply, too strongly; without that mastery we are savages. The Romulans have no such discipline, and so there is no diverting what they feel.'_

'_So what _does _he feel, that he's so determined to stay stuck in my head?'_

_Now there was no reading T'Pau's voice. 'He loves thee, child,' she said. 'Or believes he does. The hurt he has done thee has kept him here.'_

_That _really _made Uhura twitch--twitch, and nearly panic. God, why did this have to just keep getting worse and worse? Was there no damn _end?

'_Hell, if that's true I'll never get him out,' she groaned._

_T'Pau's thoughts seemed to steady her, to stave off that incipient panic. 'Thee must forgive him.'_

'_Forgive him? FORGIVE HIM? That--I don't think that's even _possible. _You saw what he did to me--how could anyone forgive that? If I have to forgive him I really will be stuck with him for life.'_

'_I did not say it would be easy,' T'Pau said, with more than a little asperity now. 'But as I told thee, if we were to try to remove him by force now it would destroy thy mind.'_

_Her tone softened a little. 'Thee is not alone, child. Thee has Spock, and Spock will only benefit from this distraction. His mourning runs as deeply as any of ours, but his human nature cannot subsume it as we do. Helping both thee will help him, as difficult as it will be for all of thee.' She paused. 'I gave Sarek no blessing when he wed Amanda. I would not do the same, when Spock bonds with thee.'_

_That absolutely floored Uhura, so much so that she couldn't say a thing._

'_Spock is half human. Thee are not half Vulcan, but thy mind is suited to him. Never has he had a true place in either world, but with thee he does. Thee and he can make a world of thine own.'_

'_I…uh, thank you.' She didn't know what else to say._

'_One does not thank logic. I will prepare the room, and then I will take my leave of thee. The rest is up to thee and Nero.'_

She broke the meld abruptly, leaving Uhura reeling. With careful, deliberate steps she rose, moving slowly but purposefully around the room, gathering Uhura didn't know what. Incense, strange oils--how did she know where everything was, anyway? Did she inspect all the rooms or something? Uhura wouldn't be surprised.

Down went the lights; up went the fire in the firepot, the smoke of some vaguely sandalwood-flavored incense filling the air. An aide was dispatched for a meditation robe, and then Uhura was alone in the hot smoky dimness, alone with her thoughts--and with Nero.

Now that T'Pau was gone she let herself shudder, fumbling with her clothes. The idea that he was somewhere in her brain, watching all this--jeeze. She wasn't sure this could even _get _any creepier.

Finally, robe donned, she sat as Spock had showed her and tried to clear her head, with an astonishing lack of success. No way could she stop thinking, find anything like a Zen state, and finally she gave over trying.

_Are you in there? _she thought, feeling like an idiot. If she hadn't felt him until now, how the hell was she to start?

The response, when it came, was not in words. Instead it was yet more warmth, different than T'Pau's and Spock's--a little rougher, less polished, and with it such a strong phantom of Nero's scent that she shuddered. Such conflicting responses that scent elicited--cold horror up her spine even as heat spiked through her. _Damn _him.

She shut her eyes, trying to stay calm, and when she opened them again she found before them not Sarek's dim, smoke-hazed quarters, but the Narada--the Narada-in-her-head. And this time it wasn't deserted.

She was standing on one of the platforms, and facing her, separated by a yawning gulf of a drop, was Nero.

At least he wasn't obviously dead--no mental zombie out of a horror holo. He looked exactly like he had alive, and that shook her almost as much as it would have if he _had _appeared dead. What could she say to him? His very presence churned up all the emotions she'd just started to sort out, the anger and guilt and shame and that peculiar, persistent sense of loss. His eyes were so very black, his tattoos almost delicate, and she found herself unable to look away. He belonged in the Narada, but not the Narada-in-her-head, and she didn't want him here.

"Aren't you going to say anything?" she asked at last, when the silence stretched unbearably.

He didn't--instead he took a flying leap across the chasm, making Uhura jump back before she could help herself. Even in her head his proximity was…alarming, dredging up memories both horrible and dangerously--not. This whole thing was so real she could feel his heat, smell his strange spicy scent, and something lurched in her stomach as he stepped toward her--a mingling of dread and guilt and a weird sort of curiosity. Looking at him now, she couldn't believe what T'Pau had said; whatever else his expression said, it did not say he loved her.

Which was a ridiculous notion anyway. Nero hadn't even known her three whole days--even if he'd been sane, that wasn't nearly long enough to form anything like real attachment, much less love. He'd been obsessed with her because he was obsessed with Spock, and nothing more; it hadn't even been her name he'd breathed when…yeah…

Speaking of which, "Who is Mandana?" she asked, falling back another pace. "Your wife?"

Nero nodded, still wordlessly, and the sudden fierceness of grief in his expression halted her cold.

"You're afraid to face her, aren't you?" she asked softly, a little more gently. "I don't think you were so insane after all, if you can be guilty enough to be afraid." If that were true, little wonder he'd latched onto her mind. Were she in his position, Uhura wouldn't want to face her spouse, either.

Somehow she held still when he reached out to touch her face, managing not to recoil when hot fingers brushed her skin. And with that touch…well. It was certainly more tender than anything she ever could have expected.

"Forgive me," he said quietly, and the sheer agony in his voice made her shudder. Oh, he knew guilt all right, far more intimately than she would have thought any being could.

"I don't think you understand what you're asking," she said, her voice unsteady. "You…you…you _know _what you did to me, and you want me to just _forgive _that?"

She wouldn't have believed the grief in his face could grow any more terrible than it already was, but it did. His eyes were fathomless wells of pain, black holes that threatened to suck her in and never release her.

"I…do," he said, so softly she could barely hear. "Please." His fingers traced the line of her jaw--gently now, free of that horrible intense lust. "I can't undo it, but…I need you to forgive me."

She caught herself trying to lean into his touch and jerked backward. "I'm not a saint, Nero," she snapped, forgetting he would not know the word. 'I don't know if I can ever do that. You broke my wrist, you _raped _me, you tried to fucking _choke _me to death--what do you think I am, that you expect me to forgive it? You tried to destroy me, and not even because of anything I'd done. You use me like a pawn and expect me to--to--" she was horrified to find herself perilously close to tears, and stepped away again, fighting hard not to let them fall. "I'm going to have to deal with this for the rest of my damn life--how DARE you ask me for forgiveness?"

She lost her battle with tears then, and angrily wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. She was so angry that she didn't realize she'd called him by name for the first time, but _he _certainly did--something in his expression changed, somehow adding a new depth to the hurt already there.

"I didn't try to kill you," he said quietly. "I just didn't want you awake. I didn't want you to see--"

"See you try to destroy the rest of my life?" she broke in. "See you kill Spock for something that hasn't even happened yet--watch you kill half of me, too? Tell me what the hell you meant to do with me after that, if you'd succeeded. Let me hear the grand master plan of the avenging Romulan." The sight of his pain hurt her, too, and that only made her angrier--at him, and herself. What should she care if she hurt him? She _should _hurt him--he deserved it a thousand times over. The sudden bewildering ache in her chest did not belong there.

He stepped toward her again, reaching out but not quite touching her face. "I…would have kept you," he said, his tone indicating he knew how impossible that would have been. "You…were more than just revenge on Spock. You made me remember--so many things, and I--"

"Would have killed me," Uhura interrupted again. "You would have, and you and I both know it. You wanted your wife back, and I'm not her, and you would have come to hate me for it. Maybe even before you drove me insane."

"_No,_" he said fiercely, and now he did touch her, cupping the side of her face with his hand. "No. I would have--we would have gone to Romulus. I could have found a place there with you. I could have been something else again."

She shook her head, but did not draw away. "No, Nero," she said, firmly convinced of what she was saying. "You went too far. There could be no going back, for you or anyone else. If you'd killed Spock I would have found a way to kill you, too, however long it took me."

He brought his other hand up to her face, heat spreading from his fingers. "I didn't want to hurt you," he said, his eyes holding hers. "I'm sorry. I can say no more than that."

"And you can do no more, either. I want you out of my head, Nero. I won't _let _you hurt me anymore."

God, _why _was the anguish in his eyes so terrible to her? Why didn't she just draw away and have done with it? She didn't care what T'Pau said, forgiveness just couldn't happen, not now, not after all he'd done to her and all she'd done to herself. But she couldn't pull back, not even when Nero bent his head to brush his lips along her hairline. Even that light contact made her shiver, and then--

_She saw Romulus, the Romulus of the future where he had once lived. Saw the Narada as the mining ship it had once been, the crew the contented workers _they _had once been. Before the grief, before the tattoos…they had been _happy, _all of them, once--including Nero. He'd had Mandana and his son on the way, his life, a _real _life. He'd been a good person once, long ago now, someone who loved and was loved and had an actual conscience, an actual sanity. He really had been a person, not a monster, not the homicidal madman who had destroyed all of Vulcan out of insane heartache. It was a firmer vision of the faint echo she'd felt from him before, in that brief time they'd laid together in the dark without fighting one another. And she could pity that man, could understand his grief even if she could never reconcile what he'd done because of it._

_And…oh hell, T'Pau had been right after all. He _did _love her, in some fractured, broken fashion--a demented, imperfect, unhealthy love, born as much out of his madness as anything else, but love nonetheless. She really had reminded him of things long forgotten, but Uhura could recognize what he could not--that his plans and wants never could have worked, because he really was too far out of his mind._

Her thoughts snapped back to the present with a tangible jolt, and after a moment she realized he was kissing her. Not a hungry kiss, not brutal or even really possessed of much carnal desire--just a kiss, as bizarrely gentle as the last he'd given her, before she killed him. She actually shut her eyes and let him, but when he drew away she shook her head.

"I can't yet, Nero," she said quietly. "I…see, now, I think, but I just can't. Not yet. It's just…it's too much too soon." She wasn't even aware there were tears on her face until he touched one, his finger tracing the hot wet track down her cheek.

"I know," he said, and there was only a little bleakness in his voice. "But…someday. Please. I want to see her again, and if I'm ever to get her forgiveness I have to have yours."

Uhura nodded, not trusting herself to speak--

--and when she blinked, she was back in the present again, in reality, the warm, dim haziness of Sarek's rooms. And she sat there for a long, long time, and wondered what the hell she was going to do.

----

YEESH, the end of this thing just keeps pushing itself farther and farther back. Next chapter sees Spock, Sarek, and Spock Prime, and maybe a bit of Kirk & co. Eventually we will see Kirk made Captain, but there's a bit more going on before then. Quite a bit.

Also, onimosity, that idea you gave me is going to be a direct offshoot AU of what Nero just told her. I can't help it. XD


	13. Part XIII: Spock

A note on T'Pau's speech patterns--her use and abuse of 'thee' is, unfortunately, canon. (Watch 'Amok Time', it's kind of hysterical; I love that episode, but _seriously_, writers.) This chapter is, surprisingly, kind of angst-free, or at least lighter than the rest of the story (not that that's saying a whole lot, really).

This one wound up extra-long mostly because of massive clumsiness on my part. The other night I was trying to go downstairs and wound up tripping over my cat and falling down the whole flight. Somehow I gave myself massive rug burn up my back _through my clothes_, and tweaked something out in it so badly I can hardly move. (Doesn't help that I broke it when I was seventeen, so throwing it out is depressingly easy anyway.) To add insult to injury, I was carrying a cup of grape juice, which wound up absolutely everywhere, including all over me, so I tossed everything I'd been wearing into the washing machine--not remembering I had the better part of a pack of cigarettes in the pocket of my bathrobe. Turns out they don't wash well, so not only did I have to re-wash the entire load, I had to pick soggy cigarette remains out of all the laundry and the washing machine. It just wasn't my evening, apparently. :( BUT it did mean I had an excuse to do nothing but lay around and write, so some good came of it, at least.

----

Spock was actually doing a fairly credible impression of someone who wasn't half worried out of his mind.

Possibly only Sarek and T'Pau would know any better but outwardly he was as serene and stoic as the best of them. It masked his inner turmoil nicely, even when T'Pau emerged and said she wished to see him alone.

They adjourned to his father's office, where he helped settle her on a sofa before she spoke.

"Thee has much work ahead," she said gravely. "Both thee and Nyota. Think not of what thee has lost, Spock, but of what thee has now." She paused. "And when thee does bond with Nyota, thee has my blessing."

That floored him even more than it had Uhura, for he better understood the enormity of what T'Pau was saying. The old Vulcan had only been grudgingly civil to Amanda because of Sarek, and because Vulcan propriety demanded it; there had certainly been no blessing. Nyota must have impressed T'Pau quite a bit.

"I have not yet asked her," he said, trying to cover his shock.

"Thee ought to do it soon," T'Pau said shortly. "Though not until she and Nero have released one another. He desires her forgiveness before he will depart, and thee of all others will know how difficult that will prove."

Unfortunately he did, all too well. What did she mean by 'release each _other'_, though? Was it Nyota's hatred that kept Nero bound to her? Dealing with that would prove…problematic.

"You realize I will have to explain the…Time," he said--awkwardly, for it was an awkward subject even among Vulcans. Part of why the High Council had pitched such a fit over his father's marriage to his mother was because it would require outworlders--even if only one--to be told of something so private. Not to mention the very real possibility a human would not survive it. "Given what happened to her, she…might not wish to bond, once she knows."

T'Pau waved a dismissive hand. "She loves thee," she said, a little disapprovingly. "More even than thee knows. It will be enough. Now go," she commanded. "Nyota will emerge when she is ready--thee should leave and take the air a while, until she needs thee again."

One did not disobey a direct order from T'Pau; Spock did as bidden, passing his father and the other Elders on his way--being Vulcan, none of them asked, however curious they might be.

The Embassy overlooked San Francisco Bay, and he watched the dark water as he walked. The air had warmed a little, filling with the sound of traffic, people out and about on their daily errands. Even after so many ears on Earth, the sight of so much water never failed to amaze him; Vulcan had lost what seas it once possessed thousands of years ago, boiled away with the solar flare that turned so much of the planet into the desert he had called home. What must it have been like, he wondered, for the proto-Vulcans who had lived at that time--watching in bewilderment as all they had known was destroyed, shortly before most of them perished? Vulcan had become for them an alien place, as different as whatever world their descendants would now find to colonize. His people's culture had risen from the ashes of that planet-wide disaster; with luck something equally good could rise from this.

Without luck, of course, they'd turn into Romulans.

Abruptly he realized he was no longer alone--an elderly Vulcan had joined him on the flagged sandstone terrace, hands clasped behind his back. He was not one of the Elders; Spock couldn't at all recall ever seen him before. There was something disturbingly familiar in his weathered features--he looked a great deal like Sarek, though he could be no relation.

"Peace and long life," he greeted, as the elder drew nearer. "I do not believe we are acquainted."

He would swear there was amusement deep on those old dark eyes. "Oh, we are," the Vulcan said. "Far better than you know." The amusement faded, replaced by equally subtle sadness. "I am the reason Nero sought you out."

It took Spock only a fraction of a second to work that one out, and when he had he couldn't help but stare.

"You…are me," he said, the words only half a question.

Spock the Elder inclined his head a little. "I am."

"Does--does anyone else know?" Surely someone would have told him, if they knew another _him _was wandering around.

"T'Pau, I should think. There is little that escapes her." The…elder him's voice was much deeper than his own, deeper even than his father's; there was something oddly soothing in it. Was that why T'Pau had ordered him outside? He didn't doubt it; it was a very…T'Pau…thing to do.

"I believe she does," he said dryly. "She sent me here, and told me not to come back until--" he broke off, unable to continue.

"Until Uhura was through," his elder self finished gently. Spock looked at him in surprise; how had he known that? Almost unconsciously he fell into step beside the other him, waiting for him to continue. When he did not, Spock had to ask,

"In your timeline, did you--I--we--" well, this was going to get irritating after a while "--were you and Nyota--?"

His elder self stopped, and looked at him. "No, Spock. The Federation in my time, when I was your age, was a different place, as was Vulcan. I did not dare speak, ever. Be wiser than I was."

Spock blinked. "Why didn't you--" he left the question hanging.

"I was too busy trying to be a Vulcan," his elder self said, with a tinge of regret. "I think she knew that, too. It seems you are already wiser than I was at your age."

Spock shook his head, looking away over the cool calm water. "I…worry for her now," he admitted. "Very much. I know how strong she is, but that…only helps so much."

"I know. Better than you might think. The Nyota Uhura I knew, though, would beat this--and I do not think she is so very different now. Just be there for her. And," the elder him added, "You will both soon be requested at the Academy."

Spock looked back at him, arching a quizzical eyebrow. Nyota was in no condition to take part in any ceremony just yet--it had to be--

"Kirk?" he asked. He'd kept up enough with current affairs at Starfleet to know they'd been bandying about the idea of actually giving him a commission, young though he was. Given the very large role he'd played in freeing them from the Narada, Spock thought he really did deserve it. Say what he might about Kirk's…unorthodox…mindset, he definitely got results.

His counterpart actually smiled a little. "Kirk," he affirmed. "Some years before he managed it in my timeline. He will become a great friend to you--you and Nyota. And Sulu. And Chekov. And Montgomery Scott. Just give it time."

Spock had to ponder that a while in silence. It was true their shared experiences had bound them all very close together in quite a short amount of time, but he and Nyota couldn't be the only ones still reeling. "I would like to attend," he said at last, "and while Nyota would, too, I do not believe the attention she would receive would be good for her. Quite apart from the fact that it should rightly be Kirk's day."

Undeniable compassion entered those old eyes. "She can watch with me," he said. "Out of the way. For obvious reasons I cannot let anyone else know who I am. Kirk knows, and you, and Scotty, and I will tell her, but I cannot interfere with the timeline any more than I already have. You must make your own destinies now."

"What will you do?" Spock asked.

"Go with the rest of our people, when we find a new world. Only T'Pau need know who I really am." There was a wistful sadness in his voice. "I am a little old to be so uprooted as I have been, but one of the few times in my life I have been genuinely happy were my years on the Enterprise. Knowing you will all be somewhere out there, exploring the unexplored--I think it might make me so again. The universe was a larger place when I was young, and I am…glad it is so again."

Spock looked away, out at the seagulls soaring white over the water. "Forgive me for saying so, but you seem so…at peace with your emotions. How did you do it?"

"I've lived a long time, Spock, and had many human friends. You still have a ways to go before you reconcile your dual nature, but you can do it. I am living proof."

Spock looked back at him, and permitted himself a very faint half-smile, though it sobered quickly enough. "My--our--mother--did she live, in your time?"

"A very long time." The sadness in his voice was quite evident now. "It is difficult for me to reconcile that she is dead here. In some ways your life will be much harder than mine, though in others, you are more fortunate than I. Our father did not fully forgive me for joining Starfleet until I was much older than you. We lost many years that you and he will share."

How strange it was, Spock thought, to hear what his life might have been, if not for Nero. Nero, who had caused so much destruction, and who evidently wasn't finished doing so even in death.

"When is the ceremony for Kirk's promotion?" he asked, unable to pursue that line of thought any further.

"Tomorrow, 0800. I would…like to meet Nyota before then, if it is all right with you both."

What a shock that was likely to give her, Spock thought--but then, perhaps outside distraction would do her good. It was certainly helping him--as T'Pau had almost certainly known it would. She could be, as he was realizing, strangely merciful in her own way.

"When she is…finished, I will see what she says," he said, a little awkwardly.

"With Nero?" His elder self was disconcertingly perceptive--well, he would be, wouldn't he? "Do not worry too much over him. When first I met him he was a good man. If that had died in him entirely, he would not hang on as he has. Whatever terrible things he has done, in the end he is still only a man, and all men feel. I believe he feels the need to make some sort of reparation, before he moves on."

How, Spock wondered, could his counterpart have any sympathy for Nero? He had destroyed their planted, nearly wiped out their entire race. He himself could spare Nero no sympathy, no forgiveness. Perhaps it was a sort of compassion that came with age, he thought, and almost he envied it. His elder self seemed as at home with grief as much as all his other emotions--but then, he must have known it much more in his life than his younger counterpart. At his great age all his human friends had to be lost to him, victims of the human race's shorter lifespan. Perhaps one simply became accustomed to it in time. What a dreadful thought.

"I am afraid I cannot share your thoughts on the matter. Forgiveness is…beyond my capacity," he said softly, almost ashamed.

"I did not say I _forgave _him," his other self said, just as softly. "Just that I…understand him better than you. For what he has done to us there may be no forgiveness."

It was…almost a relief to hear he was not alone in that, even if it was still technically _himself _who also felt that way.

"One more thing," Spock the elder said, looking over his younger self's shoulder. "I had thought I might find you here, so I took the liberty of inviting another along."

Spock turned, and saw Kirk approaching. He was limping very slightly, and his face was still a spectacular collection of scrapes and bruises, but he looked…happy. He did pause when Spock turned, though, looking from one to the other.

"Jeeze, this is weird," he said. "How's, uh, how's Uhura?"

"Coping," Spock said, taking in the sight of all Kirk's lacerations. "Spock--" he shook his head. "You are correct, Jim, this is…most strange. Spock told me you are to be promoted tomorrow. I believe the human term is 'congratulations'."

Kirk grinned, and immediately winced, touching his jaw. "I want you and Uhura on my ship, someday," he said. "Whenever you're ready. I'm trying to get all of us reassigned to the Enterprise. It's…right, I guess."

"Indeed it is," the elder Spock put in. "If your lives are anything like they were in my time, you will all go on to do great things together. Though," he added, with a wry inward smile, "if you should happen to meet a man named Khan, maroon him somewhere other than Ceti Alpha V."

Kirk blinked. "Why--" he started.

"Just trust me on this," the elder Spock said, more dryly still. "It will save you all many troubles. Especially you," he added, turning to his younger self. "And Doctor McCoy."

Spock too was bewildered, but decided not to ask. He really didn't want to know.

"I should take my leave of you for now," his elder self said, "though I would like to speak with you and Nyota soon." Amusement glinted in his dark eyes again. "Live long and prosper."

When he had gone, Kirk blew out a whistle. "That is never going to get less weird," he said, shaking his head. "Is there anything I can do for you and Uhura?"

Spock sighed. "Not yet, I think. I believe she will attend your promotional ceremony, though you will not see her. I believe it will be good for both of us."

He paused. "I have not yet thanked you for everything you did on the Narada. I could never have done it alone. In a very real sense you saved all of us."

Kirk looked away, embarrassed. "Look at how many people we lost, though. Almost half the crew."

"Without you, it would almost certainly have been all of us. You…I believe your father would have been proud of you."

Now Kirk was really embarrassed. Interesting that despite his borderline arrogance, he couldn't take a compliment. Spock had always thought all humans enjoyed receiving them. Fascinating.

"How are the others?" he asked, leaving what was clearly an uncomfortable subject.

Kirk smiled. "You should see Chekov," he said. "He's as proud of his injuries as a Klingon. Walks around like he's on top of the world. He's trying to get Sulu to help him start a self-defense course."

"And Captain Pike?"

"Bones says he'll come close to full recovery, though he's going to be stuck in a wheelchair for a while. He's not too happy to be promoted to Admiral, though--says he hates the idea of being chained to a desk. Can't say I blame him--I hope they never promote _me _that high."

Privately Spock did, too. He could already tell paperwork was likely to become Kirk's only weak point as a captain. Hopefully Starfleet would assign him a good yeoman--Janice Rand would do, he thought.

"Tell Uhura we're all thinking of her," Kirk said. "Though you probably shouldn't tell her yet that she's already a legend with the underclassmen. They don't know why she killed Nero, just that she did. _Really _did."

He looked away. "Pike had us bring back that…weapon-thing. I don't know why, I can't imagine she'd ever want to see it again. He's got it hanging on the wall in his office."

Spock didn't know why, either. _That _was something he most definitely wouldn't be telling her about.

"What of the surviving Romulans?"

Kirk sighed. "That's where it gets…complicated. Ayel's dead, but I told Starfleet Command about that woman who helped us--she's still alive. Nobody knows how many of them were in on it, to get us out. They're trying to get permission from them to have some Betazoids check their heads, but of course none of them are going for _that_. Don't want to be separated from the herd, I think. The woman--Onen--she's in a separate holding cell so they don't kill her."

Spock arched an eyebrow. He'd thought he'd never forgive any of them, but those few…that woman…without her and Ayel, and whoever was working with them, all of them would have died there. In a certain sense he could not blame them, either; they had only followed their captain's orders, however insane those orders had been. The idea of mutiny would be completely foreign to a Romulan; as the human phrase went, it was a minor miracle any of them had. He could only imagine how difficult that must have been for them, too.

"Will you…speak up for her?" Kirk asked cautiously. "Them, whoever else was in on it?"

Spock paused a long while before answering. "It…is my duty, I think. Without her and Ayel, none of it would have been possible."

Kirk blew out a relieved breath. "I think I will, too. I mean…jeeze, what else can we do, you know? She killed her own people for us."

Spock nodded, a little more firmly. "I will speak for her," he said. "And I believe I will speak _to _her, too, if she would allow it. I would very much like to know why she did so."

"Me too. That…hell, I never want to have to make that decision. Especially if I knew I was going to wind up in enemy territory after I'd done it. And Ayel…God, he was Nero's second-in-command. What the hell could have driven him to mutiny like that?"

"For Ayel's part, we will never know. Onen at least may be capable of offering some explanation, if she is willing."

Kirk glanced out over the bay, unseeing. "You want to go see her soon? Talk to her together? I mean, once you think it'd be okay to leave Uhura for a while."

"I…yes, I think perhaps that would be best. My…other self wishes to speak with Nyota, and perhaps that would be best accomplished without me present. The dissonance we create is regrettably unavoidable."

"Tell me about it," Kirk muttered. "Okay, well, let me know once everything's…settled, or whatever. They're being held in Starfleet's military prison; I'll meet you there."

"Peace and long life, Jim," Spock said quietly. "I will meet you when I can."

"Back atcha." With a lazy half-salute Kirk too left, and Spock stood a long time alone in the cool breeze off the water, watching the seagulls dance through the air.

----

Uhura, Nero, and Spock Prime are up in the next chapter, and after that Kirk and Spock pay Onen a little visit.

Once again, thank you everybody for reviewing. You guys really do completely make my day when I check my e-mail, which helps me keep going on this thing like I have been. I can't believe how much I've written in the last eleven days--I really don't think I've ever written this much this fast in my life. This story's latched onto my brain like Nero in Uhura's, so that probably won't stop any time soon, either, or so I hope.


	14. Part XIV: Uhura

Poor Uhura. Even though she's getting help, it's still not easy for her, and won't be for quite some time yet. Spock Prime tries to give her some insight into Nero's mind, but ultimately that's something she's going to have to work out for herself.

----

Uhura had finally dressed in her own clothes and escaped out the other end of the Embassy, into a garden that seemed a mingling of Vulcan and Earth flora. It was something like peaceful out here, though it did her troubled mind little good. She sat on a low stone bench, staring somewhat blankly at a glassy ornamental pond. She was so lost in thought that she didn't at first realize she was no longer alone--not until footsteps sounded quite close to her.

She looked up, somewhat surprised to find herself confronted with an elderly Vulcan she had not seen before. Almost automatically she raised her right hand in the taal, wondering if he was wondering what the hell a solitary human was doing in the middle of the Vulcan Embassy's garden.

"You would be Nyota Uhura, would you not?" he said, sounding like he already knew the answer quite well. "May I sit?"

Uhura scooted over, wondering if one of the other council members had sent him, and if so, why she had not seen him with them earlier. "I'm sorry, I don't think we've met," she said, trying to re-gather her scattered thoughts.

"Oh, we have. A very long time ago now, for me. I am afraid my presence here now is the cause of all your troubles," he added, almost sadly.

She quirked an eyebrow in a manner incredibly similar to Spock's. "How's that?" she asked, bemused.

"I am the one Nero came looking for," the Vulcan said, more sadly still. "The Spock from a timeline now far diverted from your own."

She stared at him. Vulcans didn't lie, she knew; furthermore, there had been a reason Nero was so fixated on Spock. And, though this strange Vulcan had to be very old, his eyes were still recognizable, she realized with a jolt.

"You weren't on Vulcan, when Nero destroyed it?" she asked inanely, unsure what else to say.

"That would have defeated his purpose," he--Spock, though it was hard for her to wrap her brain around what he'd told her--said. "He wanted me to watch. And…I did."

Uhura couldn't help but keep staring. Objectively she knew it had to be true, but…well, she'd had so much thrown at her in the last few days that it was difficult to process. "You…has Spock--my Spock--seen you yet?"

"I just spoke with him a moment ago. It is you I wish to speak with now, if you are willing."

_About what? _she wondered--surely this Spock could not know…everything; her Spock would never have told him. "All right," she said cautiously, suddenly driven to inspect her fingernails.

"I know that when you killed Nero, his _katra _entered your mind," Spock said gravely, and her head shot back up as she looked at him, appalled. "I do not know why, nor do I know how he could have done it. I do know that you will likely have a difficult time getting rid of him."

"There's an understatement," she muttered. At least it didn't seem like he'd heard…the rest of it, thank God. She didn't need the entire damn population of the remaining Vulcans knowing _that_, thank you very much. Bad enough T'Pau did now, as well as Spock. "He wants me to forgive him for…something," she added, "and I don't think I can, but both he and T'Pau said I can't kick him out until I have. Which…that's sort of a problem, because I don't think it's ever going to happen."

She looked away again, unable to meet his eyes. "I do not know what he did to you," Spock said slowly, "but I believe you may come to forgive him, in time. Hatred is no more in your nature than in that of the Nyota Uhura I knew; I cannot imagine you holding onto it forever."

"The Uhura you knew never met Nero," she said, just a little bitterly, and paused. "Did she?" She found herself wondering about that other her, a woman whose life, whatever else it had been, had most definitely not included _this_. In this elder Spock's time she was almost certainly dead now, if he was as old as she suspected. What a strange thought that was.

He shook his head. "No, she did not. She had her troubles, as everyone does, but she never met anything like Nero." There was something wistful in his voice, something that made her look at him again.

"You miss her, don't you?" she asked softly, and to her surprise he closed his eyes, almost pained.

"Very much. Unlike your Spock, in my timeline I never said anything to you. The Uhura I knew went on to do many things, on the Enterprise and off, but she and I did not have what you and my younger self do. And I have regretted it most of my life."

He sounded like he really had. Uhura wondered what had kept him from speaking--her Spock had been hesitant, almost awkward, but he had at least given her an opening. Perhaps this Spock had never given such an opening; perhaps the other her had not seen it, or not dared take it if she had. At least right now she had her Spock; without him this would be completely unendurable. She had an unpleasant feeling that had Nero discovered her Spock's feelings for her, requited or not, he would have done the same thing--and she would have been alone afterward. The thought made her shiver, as she considered all the myriad might-have-been's. If this had to have happened to her, at least she had people around her who cared about her, even if they could not necessarily understand.

"Have you spoken with Nero yet?" he asked her quietly, shattering her reverie. She shuddered.

"Once. Believe me, once was enough. He's--very guilty, right now, and afraid to let go for fear of having to face his wife. Which is understandable, but it's not _my _problem--he should have thought of that before he committed total genocide." She picked at a stray thread on the hem of her shirt, listening to the far-off call of seagulls, the faint sound of waves breaking gently upon the shore.

"Talk to him again soon," Spock said. "I knew him before all this--before Romulus was destroyed. If you can put him at peace, perhaps he will let go."

Uhura actually snorted. "I'm not sure that's possible," she muttered. "He's too insane. He wants me to forgive him for…something, and I just _can't_. And T'Pau says I'm stuck with him until I do, so you can see my dilemma."

The elder Spock was silent a long while--a thoughtful silence, rather than something awkward or uncomfortable. He seemed to radiate a strange…_peace_ she never would have associated with a Vulcan, even her Spock. "I think you can, in time," he said at last. "You--the other you--had a talent for bringing out whatever was good in people. Even if there was not much there to be brought out," he added, with a wry almost-smile. "Just…go with your instincts. And try to not be too impatient in the meanwhile."

"Easier said than done," she said, and sighed. Very, very much so. She didn't even know when she'd get the _chance _to talk to Nero again; she assumed she could only really do it while she was trying to meditate, which meant she'd have to find some time Spock wasn't in his quarters. Yet another thing she didn't want to think about.

"I had another purpose for seeking you out," older Spock said, somewhat less gravely. "Jim Kirk's promotional ceremony is tomorrow. Your Spock and I both thought you would not want to attend publicly, but I had planned to watch it out of sight, and it would mean much to Jim if you would, as well."

Uhura blinked, all her thoughts thrown off course. Kirk, promoted? Unlike Spock, she hadn't kept an ear to the ground in Starfleet--though it didn't really surprise her, given what she'd heard about Kirk's involvement in their escape.

"I'm glad he's getting a ship. I'm glad everyone who lived seems to be okay, more or less." Except her, but even she'd get there eventually, she told herself. It would just take longer. "Was I on his ship, in your timeline?"

She would swear the elder Spock almost smiled. "The while mission. You were--will be, if I am any judge--communications officer. If the bridge design of your Enterprise is anything like mine, you and your Spock will be side by side."

That actually did make her smile, just a little. "Whenever I'm fit for duty again," a small note of frustration in her voice.

"Jim said he wanted both you and--younger me." Even Spock the Elder, it seemed, was having problems conjugating nouns when referring to his other self. "He will hold your places."

That brought another little smile. "And do not worry, Nyota. I do not know if my younger self has told you, but there is a Vulcan term, hadi'ith--'what is, is'. You can only work with it as best you may, and no one--not even you--can ask more of you."

He stood. "I will take my leave of your now. There is still much I myself must do. Live long and prosper, Nyota."

"Peace and long life," Uhura returned, almost a whisper.

Well…that had been--strange. Very strange. So strange her mind was still scrambling to process it, a task that was slow going given everything else on her mind. Abruptly she too stood, unable to keep still, and paced the flagged walkway. As much as she didn't want to do it, maybe she really ought to talk to Nero again. T'Pau and Spock--that Spock--seemed to have much more faith in her ability to deal with Nero than she did herself. Very odd for Vulcans, who usually had no truck with things like faith; from a purely logical standpoint, the track record of her dealings with Nero was not a good one. He'd raped her and she'd murdered him and now he was trapped in her head--on what basis could anyone believe that situation would ever improve?

Ugh, no more, not yet. Think of Kirk and his promotion, of all the others who had come safely home. The living, not the dead, any of them--she couldn't properly mourn her lost friends and comrades until she'd dealt with this. Then and only then could she actually move forward; until this was over she was stagnating. Much though she didn't want to, she really did need to talk to Nero. Hadi'ith; what was, was, but that didn't mean it had to stay that way.

----

Spock wasn't back when Uhura returned to his quarters, which was just as well; she didn't need company for this. She set up the meditational aids as best she remembered how, and then sat quiet, waiting for her mind to still.

_I know you're in there,_ she thought, shutting her eyes; and, as before, when she opened them she no longer saw her physical surroundings.

This was the Narada again, unsurprisingly; she wondered if she'd ever get it out of her memory, even a little. Nero stood facing her, a little too close, but she'd be damned if she'd retreat.

"Did you hear all that?" she said, determined to ignore his proximity. "Are you aware of things that go on outside my head?"

He nodded silently, and Uhura wondered what he'd made of what the elder Spock had said.

"Both those Vulcans seem convinced I can forgive you," she said quietly. "I don't know how, or why they'd think that. Spock doesn't know what you did, but T'Pau does." She fell silent, an almost challenging silence.

"I do not know what I can say," he said at last. "I don't really know you, Nyota--you know that. Maybe they saw something in your mind that I can't."

Which meant he probably couldn't read her mind, even if he was stuck in the middle of it. That was a relief, at lest. Not that it helped her problem much--if forgiving him would get him out of her head, she supposed she ought to want it, but forgiveness, she knew, was not a thing that could be forced.

"I don't know why Spock--that Spock--said I should talk to you," she said doubtfully. "Nothing you could say could take any of it back." She would carry all those memories to her grave, she was sure; there was no forgetting that sheer level of hatred and shame--so much shame. How could she be expected to forgive that?

And yet…it was the part of her that hadn't hated it that she feared most--the part that had craved his touch, had for whatever twisted reason wanted to touch him in return. That last time, when there had been no drugs…it disturbed her to think about it, and probably always would. She still didn't understand it, how she'd come to want him so much without outside intervention or coercion--whatever it was that had passed between them then. And something _had_, though she could put no name to it, and that scared her, too--that there could be something like communion with a man who'd hurt her so very much. She didn't know what it said about her, but it couldn't be anything good. She should hate him--she _did _hate him--but it…wasn't so uncomplicated as that. Never had she thought hatred and pity could go hand-in-hand, that the pain of someone she so hated could hurt her so badly, too. Maybe she wanted to wound him _because _of that--perhaps some deep part of her thought she deserved it. She could pity him--she could even, in a way, be a little sorry she killed him--but she couldn't forgive him. She'd carry the mental scars he'd given her for the rest of her life, long after her physical wounds had healed; that brief time with Nero had irrevocably changed her. Uhura didn't see how she could ever forgive him that.

He raised a hand to touch her face, and she cursed her inward reaction. Even now, for whatever damn reason, her traitor body didn't hate his touch--quite the opposite. Had the drugs driven her to that, or what it something else, something much more ominous? The fact that so small a thing as his fingers on her skin could make her stomach flutter scared her almost more than anything else. How did he _do _it? Spock could inspire such a reaction, but that was different--it was love that made her feel that way, made her want more. With Nero, though, it was something decidedly more…primal, something she was almost helpless against--all the more so because now his touch was very different. Before it had been hungry, almost possessive; now…she didn't know what it was now, but it wasn't what it had been. She still wanted more of it, though, and that was downright terrifying.

"Don't," she said, but her voice was uneven, and she made no move to draw away. If anything the effect was even _worse _this time, damn it. "It's all wrong, and it--hurts too much when you stop," she admitted.

He didn't stop. His fingers traced her cheek, her jaw, running almost gently through her hair, and the look in his eyes was just too much. There was still madness there, yes, and guilt, but there was much more of the Nero who'd lived on Romulus than she had ever seen. And she couldn't hate that man, no matter how much she wanted to. All she could do was shut her eyes and let him stroke her face, the gesture shorn of all the insane _need _that had infused it when he was alive. Had he been only that man she could have easily forgiven him--but had he been, he never would have done what he did in the first place. There would be nothing to forgive.

"I'm not Mandana, Nero. She's the one you want--you _know_ that. And I can't--I can't be your substitute because you're too afraid to face her yet." Damn it, why couldn't she stop shivering? Why couldn't she be a Vulcan, able to regulate her own biological response? At the very least, why couldn't she step back when he drew her to him and brushed his lips along her hairline? What the hell was _wrong _with her?"

"You're not a substitute, Nyota," he said, the words little more than a hot brush against her skin. "Not a replacement. Nobody could ever replace Mandana. You're…_you_. You make me remember--everything I had, when I had Mandana. Everything I lost, and everything else I threw away." She could tell how hard it was for him to say that--to admit, in an oblique way, that yes, he had really _been _a monster. What he was now…she had no idea. And she had a feeling that neither did he, or he would have already moved on. That monster was still there somewhere, but it wasn't the entirety of him anymore, and that dichotomy of warring personalities had to be driving him mad. Madder than he'd already been, anyway.

"You're asking something I can't give, though," Uhura said, reaching up to touch his jaw before she could stop herself. "You can't smash something and then say you're sorry. I think you _are _sorry, but…you never forgave Spock after you lost Mandana. You didn't steal my Spock, but goddammit, Nero, you _broke _part of me. Maybe I can…glue it back together, somehow, but it'll never be the same. _I'll _never be the same, don't you understand that?"

She drew back enough to look up at him, no longer startled by the myriad conflicting _everything _she saw in his eyes. "And then I killed you," she said quietly, her hand lingering on his face. "I murdered you and I _wanted _to, and you drove me to it. And--I'm not entirely sure that wasn't part of your intent." _I think you wanted to die_, she thought, but couldn't say aloud.

What he thought of that, she couldn't tell; she had a feeling there was so much behind all that confused thought and emotion that she couldn't see at all. Ultimately she no more understood him than he understood her--they were two perfect strangers bound together now by she didn't even know what. Insanity, maybe, that very bizarre madness that seemed quite unique to Nero--insanity that had seemed all to infective at the time. Maybe it really was. Maybe that's why she couldn't just kick him out and have done with it, couldn't even bring herself to stop him touching her.

He didn't say anything--but then, what response could he give? He certainly couldn't deny it, any of it. Instead he brought his other hand up to twine in her hair, one rough thumb brushing over her cheek, and Uhura wondered how crazy she herself must be, to not only allow it but _enjoy _it. It was…_sick _was the only word. And when he bent his head to kiss her, she didn't try to stop him.

It was a light kiss, very like the one he'd given her earlier, when last she'd talked to him. And it _hurt_, like nothing she'd ever known--not physically, not really, but that infernal ache in her chest only deepened. She was still angry with him, still hated him--but she couldn't let go of him, either, not right now. Part of her still needed him, horribly wrong though that was.

In a dim way she knew what was really going on, and it was just as sick. They were feeding off one another's pain, a twisted cycle she didn't yet know how to break. She had to break it _soon_, though, or there would come a time she wouldn't want to, and then neither of them would ever find peace. There had been no true resolution to the literal war they'd waged on one another, no answer to whatever unformed questions that brief time in the dark had raised. And it didn't help that even now, she didn't know what to ask.

And yet with all that knowledge she couldn't help but kiss him back, just as lightly, wondering how long she could handle this whole situation before she went completely insane herself. She couldn't speak of this to anybody, not even Spock; it was not a thing anyone else could understand, because even she didn't really get it. But she had to, and soon, or her escape from the Narada would have been pointless. Wherever she might be physically, there was no running from her own mind.

----

Because I wasn't mean enough already. They are going to have some serious problems before this is over--more than they've already got, anyway. At least Kirk and Spock's dealings with Onen will be decidedly less confusing for everyone involved. And we might just possibly see some of the other Enterprise crew next chapter.


	15. Part XV: Kirk

In which Kirk and Spock interview Onen and learn some very surprising things, and Spock finally sees more of the Enterprise crew. I figured it was about time for another Kirk POV, so here we are.

----

Kirk didn't let himself think that this could go really, really horribly.

They knew virtually nothing about Onen, aside from the fact that, whatever her reasons, she'd joined Ayel's small mutiny. Even without knowing her, though, Kirk didn't want to see her get the same treatment as the rest of the crew, whatever the hell_ that _turned out to be. The Federation had no death penalty, even for people who had committed genocide on such a massive scale. Had Nero lived, they might have put that rule in abeyance for him, but as it was his crew were following his orders. Which made things very sticky; given Starfleet's understanding of the atmosphere aboard a ship, any ship, but especially Romulan. The Narada might have been a civilian craft, but an oath of loyalty on a Romulan ship was sacrosanct no matter what kind of ship it was. The personal cost to Onen and Ayel had to be unimaginable. It was little wonder they had Onen on suicide watch.

Nearly all the Romulans were on suicide watch, actually. Romulans didn't make good prisoners, as they tended to ascribe to the idea that death was preferable to being held captive by enemies. Given what they themselves tended to do to their POW's, Kirk really couldn't blame them.

Starfleet prison didn't look much like a prison from the outside. Smooth pale stone walls, windows that looked quite ordinary, a neatly manicured lawn--not even a sign proclaiming what it really was. Anybody not in Starfleet probably wouldn't _know _what it was just by looking at it, but that was the entire point, he mused. Their credentials were carefully checked when they entered, too, their weapons left at the door, and a deceptively small guard led them to the wing housing Onen.

The rooms were surprisingly comfortable-looking, even if quite stark and utilitarian. A real bed, a small but adjacent bathroom, and a decent-sized window overlooking the lawn.

Onen herself looked much different than the last time they'd seen her--a stone-faced figure in a grey prisoner's uniform, seated cross-legged on the bed. Her brown hair was loose, apparently freshly brushed, but it was her eyes that gave Kirk quite a turn--bleak eyes, accepting and even welcoming the idea of death, but also weirdly serene. He wondered if she was drugged.

"May we have some privacy?" Spock asked the guard, who reluctantly withdrew. He and Kirk settled themselves on chairs outside the force screen, and waited patiently for her to speak.

They had to wait a long time. Onen might have saved their lives, but she was still a Romulan; squealing wasn't in her people's nature. She probably figured they would just torture or drug it out of her in time. _Romulans._

"Why did you do it?" he finally asked, bluntly. "Why did you help us?" Spock gave him a slightly disapproving look, but he ignored it.

Onen met his eyes, unblinking. "Long after your lifetime there is a war," she said flatly. "Without the Federation, the entire quadrant would be destroyed. Captain Nero…wasn't thinking of that. His method of 'saving' Romulus would only have led to its destruction even earlier."

_That _was a shock and a half. What could possibly be capable of destroying the quadrant, and _why?_

"Romulus and the Klingons were forced to side with the Federation, and we almost lost anyway. Without the Federation, we would not have had a chance." She paused. "And…it was the Vulcans who failed us. Revenge was allowable, but Earth, Andoria--the rest of you have done us no harm since the war that established the Neutral Zone. There would be no honor there, no glory to be had. And…he would not have stopped with you. The Klingons would have been next--though _they _deserve it," she added fiercely. "Nothing would have stopped him, ever. Better you have a fighting chance."

Even Spock didn't seem to know what to say to that. Kirk wanted to ask what the hell she meant about that war, but the poor woman looked like she was in agony just mentioning it. And saying all that about her captain--basically admitting he'd been off his rocker--no wonder she was so messed-up. He wondered what she'd expected to happen to her if they did win--and then realized with a horrible jolt the only answer there could be.

"You thought you were going to die there, didn't you?" he asked. "Like Ayel."

Now Onen looked away. "I should have," she said, quiet but savage. "Whatever the reason, I'm a betrayer and a mutineer. And the penalty for that is death."

Kirk couldn't help but feel sorry for her--even more than he already had. "Starfleet won't execute you, you know," he said.

"My own crew should do it," she said wearily. "By rights Captain Nero should have, but I found him too late. Your Uhura killed him first." Now she looked at Spock, but surprisingly there was no real anger in her eyes--only respect. "Ayel unlocked the door, before he died. She deserved her own chance at revenge, and if the captain had to die--it was a clean death, at least, a death worthy of him. She had the most right, even over you." Her tone implied this was largely because she thought a Vulcan would not have done it anyway.

Kirk wasn't so sure. Spock was half human, and Nero had destroyed his entire damn planet--even before everything that had happened to Uhura, Kirk could easily have seen Spock trying to take the bastard apart with his bare hands. Which…would have ended badly, even if he'd succeeded. Look what killing Nero had done to Uhura. That was just a no-win situation however you stacked it.

"You want your shipmates to kill you?" he asked dubiously. Romulans tended to…drag things out. A lot.

She actually bowed her head. "I do. It's no more than I deserve." She looked back up, her eyes meeting his. "I did what I believed to be the right thing, but that doesn't change the fact that I betrayed my captain. There must be justice, and I knew that before I started."

Now Kirk was the one who looked away, uncomfortable. That was…a hell of a mindset, really. Romulus must be a harsh place to live. Who knew, maybe that was why Nero left it to be a deep space miner.

"This war," he said, trying a different tack, "what can you tell us about it? Now that we don't have Vulcan…" Not that Vulcan would be likely to fight in a war, but anything that could make the Klingons _and _the Romulans side with the Federation had to be some scary shit.

"They call themselves the Dominion," Onen said, more flatly still. "They invade through a wormhole that has not yet been discovered, from the Gamma Quadrant. An entire civilization that live only to enslave, and wipe out anything that resists. Some of them are shape shifters," she added. "I would warn your Federation not to make use of any wormholes near Bajor, but if you don't, someone else will."

That shook him, though he didn't show it. If a Romulan was pretty much admitting there was a society out there even more badass than they were…Spock would be alive to see it, probably, even if he wasn't. "We won, though, right?"

"Barely. And at enormous cost. The Battle of Cardassia was, in my time, the single most massive space battle in known history, and the bloodiest."

Well…Kirk had always heard that forewarned was forearmed. He could only hope that was true.

"You…did a hell of a lot for us, Onen," he said, finally. "And…I just want you to know we're grateful. I don't know if I could have done the same, in your place." Which was very true. He tried to imagine having to mutiny against Pike for some reason, and couldn't do it. And Onen had been with the Narada crew since before he was born.

Finally she blinked. "It had to be done. Ayel and I knew that."

"Anyway, uh…I think I'm going to go for a walk," he said, desperately needing out of this conversation. "Come find me when you're done, Spock." He gave Onen a salute--a proper one--and made his way out to the grounds. He had to think alone, to digest that major an info-dump.

Did that war have to be so terrible in this timeline, he wondered, as he paced across the cool grass. Nero had severely screwed things up so who knew how it would fall out so far ahead in this future. Maybe it would be better--and maybe it would be a lot worse. He wanted to ask Spock--the other Spock--a lot of questions.

Soon. He still had this promotional ceremony to get ready for, though it was turning out to be even more bittersweet than he'd expected. The older Spock had pretty much said the Kirk in his lifetime had had an easier life, in a way--had known his father, had earned the Enterprise without losing half its crew his first trip out. He wondered what that would have been like--and wondered who the hell Khan was, and why he'd ever want to maroon the guy. Spock had seemed very…_definite_…on that point. God, how weird. There ought to be some kind of law about meddling with the past, some kind of--of--Temporal Prime Directive. Otherwise things just got way too bizarre.

He hoped Uhura could come to the ceremony, even if, as Spock rather cryptically said, he wouldn't see her. Only he, Spock, Bones, and Pike knew what had actually happened to her on the Narada--_why _she'd killed Nero so spectacularly--but given her physical state when she'd done so, others had to have guessed. Fortunately, nobody seemed willing to speculate aloud. Spock had said she'd have to save herself, to have her own shot at revenge, but _jeeze_, that had literally seemed like overkill. Kirk didn't want to think about the level of sheer hatred that had to have gone into that death-blow. He wished there was something he could do for her, but right now it seemed all he could do was let her and Spock alone.

He had to wonder at Pike's motivation for keeping that…thing. Yeah, it was a kind of trophy, but not one any of the survivors were likely to want to see. _He _didn't, and he hadn't even used the thing. If Uhura ever saw it, it would probably send her straight back into a whopping case of PTSD.

His troubled reverie was broken by Bones, of all people, scowling like thunder as he marched up the walkway.

"You look like you're on your way to shoot someone," Kirk called. "Why so cranky?"

Bones stopped short, and rolled his eyes. "It's these goddamn Romulans," he said irritably. "Apparently because I was on a ship with them I'm the resident expert on Romulan physiology."

"Isn't it the same as Vulcan?" Kirk asked, sauntering over to him.

"Not quite, and nobody seems to know much about what of it _is _different. Somehow they keep trying to kill themselves without any outside help, and two've 'em have succeeded. I'm supposed to find out why--and let me tell you, performing an autopsy on a Romulan's not pretty."

Kirk winced. "I'd bet not. So what, you're supposed to look at some of them here? Spock's already in there--maybe when you're both done we can go get a drink."

"Jim, it's two in the afternoon."

"Like that's ever stopped you," Kirk snorted. "Anyway, I need one after what I just heard. I can fill you in once we get there."

"Why do I think I'm not going to like this?" Bones muttered.

"Probably because you're not. Alcohol will help," Kirk intoned sagely.

"Oh, what, you're a doctor now?"

"I've spent so much time around you I might as well be. Go do your thing--I've got a bit to think about anyway." Did he ever, even if he didn't particularly want to. He waved Bones onward, half wishing he'd never come to talk to Onen.

_We've got to be more advanced now, though, than we were in her timeline_. God knew they'd reverse-engineered everything they could from the scans the Kelvin's shuttles had brought back of the Narada--it was one of the reasons the Enterprise's weapons actually had any effect against the massive ship. Now that they actually had possession of it, maybe they could make better use of its technology than the Klingons had. Who knew where they would be in a hundred and fifty years, with the advances they had now? Maybe then that war wouldn't be as close a draw as Onen said. He hoped so, anyway.

He really wanted to talk to Spock the Elder, for more reasons than one. He still had too many questions about that Vulcan's timeline--not about the Dominion, but about his father. His stepfather…well, there was a reason they didn't keep in touch. His mother tried, but the bottom line was that his step dad was an asshole, and Kirk had better things to do with his time than deal with assholes. He'd invited her to his promotional ceremony, but only on the condition that dear old step daddy didn't come. No, Kirk didn't have father issues. Really.

It was quite some time before Spock and Bones emerged, the latter looking even more frustrated than he'd gone in. Maybe he wouldn't protest that drink now.

"Onen say anything?" Kirk asked, as he fell into step beside the two.

"Nothing of any note. I have never seen anyone wish for death as much as that woman," Spock said. "Unless she especially is kept under very close watch, I believe she will take her own life at the earliest opportunity.

Kirk shuddered a little. That was such an alien mindset that he didn't even want to try to understand it.

There was a small dive of a bar downtown, and that was where he led them, through the busy streets and swiftly-warming air. It was approaching the heat of the day, and even his civilian clothes were stifling, but the bar itself was cool and dark. Spock of course wouldn't have any alcohol, but, seedy though the bar was, it had a decent selection of Vulcan drinks. Kirk and Bones were more than happy to make do with whiskey.

"Bones, you know I want you on the Enterprise, right?" Kirk said at last, staring into the amber liquid. Now that he had Bones here, he found he didn't know how to bring up everything Onen had said. "Pike said he won't let anybody transfer you if you don't want to go."

"Of course I don't want to go," Bones retorted, sounding offended. "Anyway, nobody else knows that sickbay like I do."

"Nobody knows that _ship _like we do," Kirk added. "She's ours, now."

"Or we are hers," Spock interjected suddenly, causing them both to look at him. Vulcans weren't exactly known for making metaphors. "Gentlemen, I do not believe in Fate, but it does seem as though _something _is making certain this altered timeline does not keep us from certain elements of our counterparts' destinies."

"How d'you figure that?" Bones demanded.

Kirk and Spock looked at one another. "Let's get Scotty," Kirk said. "Bones, there's someone I think you need to talk to. He can probably tell you more about what I wanted to tell you than I can, anyway."

Bones blinked, bewildered, but decided not to ask.

----

Scotty, who was sitting amid a disaster of piles--laundry, boxes, old take-away wrappers--reading some physics magazine or other, did not want to be got. It wasn't until Kirk mentioned 'that guy we met on Delta Vega' that he managed to pry the engineer out of his seat, and that did it and then some. All of which only bewildered Bones even further, to his irritation and Kirk's amusement.

"He's at the, ah, Embassy, right?" he said to Spock, low, while Scotty and Bones bickered about--Kirk wasn't even sure what, actually.

"So he indicated. If T'Pau is indeed aware of his existence, as I am certain she is, she could tell us where precisely to find him. Though I would rather not need to ask," he added, with a little more _feeling _than was his wont.

"Ooookay then. We'll just have to find him ourselves." Kirk was more than content to let the other two argue even when they snagged a flitter and headed off into traffic once more. In spite of everything, Kirk couldn't deny a certain amount of gleeful speculation as to what Bones's reaction would be. It would be nice to see it coming from someone _else_ this time.

The guard at the Embassy gate raised an eyebrow at the sight of them, but waved the flitter through anyway. Bones and Scotty, who had at some point actually ceased bickering and geared back into something like real conversation, piled out and followed Kirk, who was following Spock. They wound their way through the gardens, less deserted now in the afternoon heat, until they reached one of the furthest patios overlooking the water.

"Why here?" Kirk asked as an aside, when sure enough they spotted the tall, spare figure of the elder Spock. "How'd you know?"

"It is where I would go, were I a guest at the Embassy and desired solitude."

Well, there was no flaw to be found in _that _logic. Figured.

Bones and Scotty broke off when the elder Spock turned to them--Bones in confusion, Scotty in something like delight. Kirk would bet that if the engineer didn't ask anything about relativistic physics, he'd be wanting to know more about futuristic sandwiches. The old Vulcan's eyebrow lifted in a manner still weirdly too familiar to Kirk's mind, which drew an almost instinctive return gesture from Spock.

"Leonard McCoy," he said, and there was in his voice the same almost wistful warmth with which he'd addressed both Kirk and Scotty. If it was weird for them to see him, Kirk thought, how much weirder for him to see them, especially with all his memories.

"Beg pardon?" Bones said, his eyebrows knitting in confusion.

"He knows you, too," Scotty said, clearly trying to stifle a grin and failing. "He's him from the future--" with a nod at the younger Spock.

Bones glanced from one Spock to the other, searching for some sign this was all some bizarre practical joke. Of course he received none, even when his eyes met Kirk's.

"Bullshit," he said eventually.

"Funny, that was my reaction. Mister Spock--uh, wow, still weird--we'd like to ask you a few questions, sir."

"More than a _few_," Bones muttered, staring.

The older Spock closed his eyes a moment, in something like a resignation that was not entirely shorn of amusement. "I had wondered what the Romulans would have told you. Come, sit. It has been…far too long since I saw you all, even if you are no longer quite the _you _that I knew."

----

Poor floored Bones…they are all going to have more than a few questions for Spock Prime next chapter--which, if it cooperates, will be from his viewpoint. The idea of writing his POV is pretty damn daunting, but we will see what comes of it.

As always, thank you guys for reviewing. :)


	16. Part XVI: Spock Prime

This is definitely the chapter I'm most nervous about, because--seriously, Spock Prime. I really hope I've managed to come close to doing him justice (and in the process of writing this realized, really _realized_, just how much of a Star Trek nerd I really am. I honestly hadn't thought I'd remembered so much about the Original Series and the movies, but much of it has found its way into Spock Prime's narrative).

----

Spock had long ago though that there was little anymore that could surprise him. Fascinate, yes; if anything he'd only grown more curious with age, but rarely in his life had anything really, truly surprised him.

These three did.

They were so like and unlike the men he'd worked with on the Enterprise, Jim especially--of the three, his life had to have been the most different. Doctor McCoy was the most familiar of the trio, the most like the man he'd known, and that was almost more surprising than the others' subtle and not-so-subtle differences. Nostalgia was not logical, but at his age Spock had finally discovered there was much more to the universe than logic. These men, and all the crew of his Enterprise, had started teaching him that lesson long ago.

And it _was _fascinating that Montgomery Scott had had the least extreme emotional reaction upon meeting him--but then, this Mister Scott had not met his younger counterpart first. Certainly Doctor McCoy's reaction was…_spectacular _was probably the best adjective.

"So _you're _the reason Nero was after Spock here? I--why the hell didn't I think of that?" He was pacing, his drawl thickening as it always had when he was upset or excited.

"As you yourself said, Doctor," the younger Spock intoned dryly, "you're a doctor, not a physicist. If it is any comfort to you, I did not think of it, either."

That raised both McCoy's eyebrows into his hairline, while Jim tried to choke back a laugh.

"Tell me I didn't just hear that," McCoy said, incredulous. "Tell me you didn't just admit you were _wrong _about something."

Yes, Spock thought to himself, _that _at least was very similar.

"It is not something that likely _would _occur to any of you," he said. "If I recall correctly, the current theory of time travel states that no two incarnations of any individual may coexist on the same plane of space-time. Clearly that theory is incorrect."

Now Jim _was _laughing, and making no attempt to hide it. Spock arched an eyebrow. "and it seems my good intention to cease meddling in this timeline will prove equally false. I cannot promise I will answer all your questions, but I will answer what I believe I can." It was…strange, he thought, but strange in a good way he had seldom known.

Jim sobered, and looked at the younger Spock--clearly a cue for him to speak.

"We did indeed speak with the Romulans today," his younger self said. "One of them--a woman who had helped us escape Nero's ship. She mentioned some unsettling things regarding a future war--the reason she did not wish Nero to destroy the Federation."

"Ah," Spock said softly. So grief hadn't made them all so shortsighted after all. "The Dominion War. Yes."

McCoy and Scotty were now all ears--clearly Jim and his younger self had not mentioned this to them. "And what did she tell you?"

"That the Romulans and Klingons actually sided with is in it," Jim said, settling on a low stone bench. "Which…that's scary enough without any details."

"Indeed. They had little choice--in my timeline the Dominion's technology far outmatched any of our own. Without cooperation, they would have overrun the entire quadrant."

Both McCoy and Scotty were now openly gaping at him. "_What?_" McCoy demanded.

"If it is any consolation, Doctor, all this is beyond your lifetime. Or was," he added thoughtfully. "I can be certain of nothing that will happen here--only of what happened there."

"Where were you, when that started?" his younger self asked, leaning against the stone railing.

"Romulus." He quirked an eyebrow at their disbelief. "By then I had for some years been the Federation's Ambassador to Romulus. By that point the Empire was a very different place than it is now." He hadn't told Jim that, because at the time Jim hadn't needed any extra distractions. "I helped convince them they had to ally themselves with the rest of the quadrant or risk losing everything. Until that time they had been neutral, but neutrality would not save them from the Dominion if we lost the war."

He watched that sink in--even his younger self looked troubled. In this timeline there would be no Unification, he thought almost sadly. This younger him would never set foot on Romulus, and Romulus might never change now. And unless the Romulans somehow developed Red Matter on their own, the supernova would destroy them anyway. There was no Vulcan to help them now. It was a bitter irony that Nero's twisted attempt to save Romulus had almost certainly doomed it.

Jim blew out a low whistle. "Well, damn," he said. "What about, you know, any good stuff?"

Spock gave one of his almost-smiles. "Again, I can tell you only what was, not what will be. We all served on the Enterprise for many years, with a break in that service only when you were temporarily promoted to Admiral. You didn't like it," he added, when Jim stared. "Eventually you got yourself permanently demoted to Captain."

McCoy snorted with laughter. "Him, an Admiral? Did Starfleet go insane at some point before then?"

"He thought so," Spock said dryly. "Fortunately, they changed their minds when we went back in time to save Earth from a destructive space probe. Earth of the year 1986 was a most confusing place," he added, half to himself. "Particularly the language. Far more use of, ah, colorful metaphors."

All four gaped at him, even the younger Spock, in his understated way.

"As to the rest, I cannot deprive you of what will be the novelty of your adventures. And your friendship." And more, in the case of his younger self. Some of the regret he'd always held for not saying anything to his Uhura was eased now by the knowledge that this Spock had. She had to have known the feelings were there, or she would not have flirted as she had--and like him, she had never married. So many lost opportunities this incarnation of him had not let slip through his fingers. He had lost so much, but he had also gained much more than his elder self ever had. It was a comfort, in a way, to know that things went right somewhere, even if others had gone so disastrously wrong. Even if this Uhura did have Nero's _katra _in her head, his younger self was perceptive enough that he ought to be able to help her get over it just fine, given time. It was only the waiting that would seem intolerable.

"Do I ever manage to get married?" Jim asked, curious.

Another arch of an eyebrow. "That is entirely up to you, young man. The Jim Kirk I knew spent his life as a career officer, but that does not mean you must do so. Indeed the only one out of all of us in my time who married was Hikaru Sulu. The rest of us called the Enterprise home and family for decades."

The thought of Sulu being the only married man among them seemed to strike all four as…interesting, to say the least.

"So…what about this war?" Scotty asked. "Is there anythin' we can do about it now?"

"I do not know," Spock said slowly, "but you have knowledge--and technology--now, that we did not have in my reality. I suggest you use it well."

He watched them, all these young men with all their lives ahead of them. Would they come to know all the adventures he had known? Would they even meet Khan, or the being that had called himself Apollo? Would they find the Guardian of Forever, and travel even further back into Earth's history? He hoped this Jim would come up with a better explanation for the younger Spock's ears than a fall into a mechanical rice-picker. And--and here he winced internally--hopefully his younger self would never have to deal with having his _brain_ stolen.

This Spock must not have been bonded to T'Pring as a child--that had been one of his reasons for at first saying nothing to his Uhura--and so would likely be spared any need to fight Jim to the death. The Tholians, the Archons, even the tribbles--so much awaited them now, so much he would not spoil by forewarning them. As he had told his younger self, the universe was a bigger place in this time, so much still unexplored; he could not take away the wonders that would come with that exploration. And, as he had also said, knowing they were all out there somewhere would make his own life here happier. Once they had put this time behind them, adventure and discovery would be theirs for the taking.

"Would you--come have dinner with us, sir?" Jim asked. "And tell us what else you think you can?"

"That," he said, "would be my pleasure."

----

Next up again is Uhura, who will finally find a sort-of solution to the problem of Nero, and Spock's overdue explanation of the Time--which will be awkward for him but likely quite amusing for Uhura, if also understandably alarming.


	17. Part XVII: Spock and Uhura

In which I _finally _quit being so horribly cruel to Uhura and Spock--well, to Uhura, anyway; Spock has his own problems in this chapter, though of a decidedly less awful nature.

----

When she finally came back out of her mind, Uhura made tea, and sat, and thought.

Forgiving Nero just wasn't going to happen. Ever. She had to find some other way of getting him out of her head, because that simply wasn't and never would be an option. T'Pau could say what she liked, but Uhura wasn't a Vulcan. This was a grudge she'd carry until the day she died, and with good reason.

As a distraction, she sat at Spock's desk and worked out verb lists in Romulan, trying to focus her thoughts. Present tense, past tense, transitive, in all three dialects, conjugating and organizing the various subtleties between them. She found it bizarre that Nero was more afraid of facing his wife because of her than, you know, because of the _entire damn planet_ he'd destroyed. You'd think that would be his foremost concern, but no, it was her. Not the surviving Vulcans, _her_. His priorities were a little skewed.

She tried to look at it from his wife's hypothetical point of view as she wrote, stylus busy on the screen. If it were her, and Spock had done all that, what would she think? The Nero Uhura knew was not the Nero Mandana had married--what the hell would she think of any of it? Uhura couldn't imagine _Spock _ever doing anything like that, but then there was no way Mandana could have thought her husband capable of it, either. It was quite possible Mandana wouldn't forgive him in the Romulan afterlife even if Uhura, through whatever miracle, forgave him in this one.

But then, people's perspectives were supposed to change in the afterlife, weren't they? She knew frustratingly little about any of Romulus's religions, so she had no idea how benevolent or terrible their idea of life after death might be. She could probably ask Nero, but she'd really rather not have to.

He'd loved Mandana very much--that she _did _know, at least. It was his personal loss of her even more than that of Romulus that had driven him so insane with grief, and that at last she could partially understand, even if she couldn't understand why he'd done such horrible things because of it. God only knew what she'd be like, if she were to lose Spock in such a fashion…Nero wouldn't fear Mandana's condemnation so much if he _didn't _love her like he did, and thus she herself had this problem. Damn.

Really, though--did he want her forgiveness for Mandana's sake, or his own? Since he seemed untroubled by any judgment his wife would pass on him for such massive genocide, Uhura fancied his reasons were much more personal. She'd have to find some way to shift him that played off that, if she could. Simply telling him she forgave him without meaning it would not, she thought, work.

Which again brought her around to placing herself in Mandana's shoes, and Spock in Nero's. What would she think, observing all this from beyond the grave? She'd be horrified, oh God yes, but what else? Was there true forgiveness in the afterlife? Would her perspective somehow be changed there? She couldn't know for sure, unfortunately; there was not, as Spock would say, enough hard data. _No _hard data, only guesses…feelings. Intuition. And it was that intuition, unfounded and ephemeral though it was, that led her to lay down her stylus and turn inward to her mind once more.

Again, the Narada--she wondered now if it was a construct of her mind or his. And again Nero, watching her carefully with those dark alien eyes. He didn't say anything, nor did he move when she walked toward him. Uhura reached up to touch his face before she spoke, the stubble of his cheek rough beneath her fingertips.

"You don't need me to forgive you," she said softly. "You only need Mandana to, and she will where I can't."

"How do you know that?" he asked, placing one warm hand over hers. His eyes were just so very damn black, blacker than his tattoos--burning eyes, filled with just…_too much_, but she couldn't look away.

"Because she loves you. She wouldn't want you to stay here, whatever you did. You can't get her to forgive you if you're not where she is." Peculiarly, she could say that--could _know _that--and still hate him. How odd, to feel anything like empathy for a man she was still ultimately glad she'd murdered. "You can't stay here forever--you don't want that any more than I do, and you know it. Go home, Nero. Just…let _go _already."

She couldn't read his eyes at all; whatever he was thinking was known only to himself. "Would you, if you were her?"

Uhura shut her eyes a moment. "I…think I would. If I had died and somehow Spock had done what you did, I'd still have to forgive him. Because I love him." And…it was true, she realized. If you really loved someone, you could forgive them almost anything.

He brushed the hair back from her forehead, his fingers lingering over her temple. "And you?"

She fought a snort. "I'll never forgive you, Nero, and you know that, too. I can move on from this, but you took something from me I can never get back." Indeed the only good thing that had come of all this was an even deeper love and appreciation of Spock--but look what it had cost her. "But like I said, it's not my forgiveness you need. The only good thing you could do for me now is leave me in peace, so I can at least try to forget you."

Incredibly, that brought vastly more pain to his eyes--but it too was the truth, and she would not spare him it. He had no right to _be _spared. His fingers curled lightly around the back of her neck, but for a long while he did not speak--and when he did, the words were halting, faltering, uneven.

"I--wish I had not--done anything to make you want to forget me," he said. "I wish--I wish you wouldn't--hate me."

Uhura couldn't help but feel sorry for him, in some weird way. "You can't change that either, Nero," she said, almost gently. "I hate you and I always will, but maybe in time I'll forget you as much as I can. Just be happy to know you didn't break me entirely. That's all the absolution I can give you." She wouldn't spare him that truth, either, even if that damn pain in his eyes did somehow hurt her to the heart, too. Once he was gone, she knew, that too would fade with time. She could move forward then, to as normal a life as she would ever have. And maybe Mandana really would forgive him, and he would find peace, too. Oddly, she hoped he would.

Once again it was a long time before Nero spoke, and then all he said was "a'ineth"--Romulan for 'I'm sorry'. And then he drew her closer, tilting her chin up so he could kiss her--lingeringly this time, parting her lips to deepen it, and she let him because she recognized it was his twisted form of farewell. And, more bizarrely still, she found some peace in it as well, when he wrapped his arms around her and she felt the heat of his body against hers. This was cutting her ties, too, the malignant ropes that had bound her to all the horror he'd inflicted on her.

He drew back enough to kiss her forehead--and then he was gone, and she was seated once more at Spock's desk, feeling, for the first time since this nightmare started, truly free. This time, when tears blurred her vision, she did not fight them--this was one last purging, ridding her soul of the last of the taint Nero had left. And when Spock finally returned, she'd found a strange, fractured sort of serenity. All was, at what seemed like long last, as it should be, and when she wrapped her arms around him and rested her head against his chest, she felt no shame, no hurt, no fear--only peace.

----

Spock was…surprised, to say the least, when he felt that odd cracked peace radiate from Nyota. He touched her hair, smoothing it back, feeling warm breath on his shoulder through his shirt.

"What happened?" he asked softly, wrapping his other arm around her.

"I got rid of him." The words were slightly muffled against his chest. "Sent him on his way to…wherever Romulans go when they die."

"You managed to forgive him?" Spock asked, mildly amazed.

She drew back to look up at him. "Oh, hell no. I just convinced him he didn't need my forgiveness. I think he knew he was never going to get it, and finally just accepted it."

_That _was…flooring, to say the least.

"I'll never stop hating him, but…I can move on--you and I both can," she added, lightly touching his face. "Now that he's literally out of my head, maybe I can start to get rid of the memory of him, too."

He couldn't help but stare at her, and wonder how in the universe she'd managed that. A weight he had not known he carried seemed to lift from his shoulders, and it was so strange and startling and simply _wonderful _that he pulled her to him and kissed her without thinking. This was the Nyota he knew again, a Nyota who could now actually start to regain her--her _self_, long and hard a journey though it would surely be. He doubted she would ever truly rid herself of Nero's memory, but now she had a chance to learn to live with it, or live around it, without it ruling her.

And…there was something else wanted to ask her, but before that there was something he had to _tell _her, however awkward, embarrassing, and potentially disastrous it might be. He wished it would not have been taboo to ask his father what he had told his mother, and how. It had to have been dreadfully awkward for Sarek, too.

"Nyota, I…" He led her over to the low Vulcan settee, sitting beside her without releasing her hand. "I…would like to ask you to bond with me, but…before I do…there's something I, ah, need to tell you." Spock could feel the tips of his ears turn green as he blushed, and inwardly cursed his stammer. This was even more uncomfortable than he'd expected, he thought, as Nyota's eyebrows climbed until they practically touched her hairline.

"There is…that is…there is a thing Vulcans go through roughly ever seven years, called _Pon Farr._ We simply call it the Time, on the rare occasions we must speak of it."

"Oh?" she encouraged, watching him practically sweat.

"It…it is the Time of Mating, when a bonded pair must mate or die--if they are Vulcans, that is," he added hastily. "To my knowledge there was never any danger to my mother, though I cannot be sure." Yet again, another thing he could not ask his father. "It…destroys our logic, our reason--we become little more than animals, unless our bondmate directs the, uh, desire."

Her eyes widened, as he'd been afraid they would. She had, unfortunately, all too much experience with something far too similar. "How--how long does it last?" she asked, her voice not quite even.

"Ten to fourteen days--not non-stop, obviously. Even a Vulcan could not survive that."

Her eyes widened yet further. "There's no way to control it?"

"A wife may channel and direct it, as she chooses. It is a--shared thing, between bondmates, a thing as much mental as physical. It is not--not--" _rape_, he could not say. "I--if you would not wish it, I would understand. You have--reason--not to."

Nyota swallowed. "How, um, how long until your next--Time?"

"Roughly four years. Even in that time you need give me no answer, though--Vulcans have, er, other options." Now he knew his face had to be flaming pea-green. "They are not very dignified, but they are effective."

Nyota clearly tried not to snort, and failed, her own face flushing darker. "You really _die _if you don't?" she asked, sounding incredulous.

"We do," he said solemnly. "Even now no one knows why, nor do we know how to effectively obviate it in any other way." Except by violence, which he was _not _going to tell her.

She drew in a whistling breath. "Um," she said. "Wow. So…we're bonded when this happens--what is that _like_, exactly?"

"It is…it really depends," he said thoughtfully, wondering how best to explain it to a non-Vulcan; it was something so intrinsic to his race that they never really had to put it in words. "It can be as intimate as a mind meld, or merely a simple presence. Bondmates choose how much of their minds they share."

"When they're Vulcans. Humans aren't telepathic--how did it work with your parents?" Her hand was not quite steady in his.

"As I understand it, my father held the level of barrier she desired until she learned to control it herself. Most humans do have some latent psionic ability--you included, if I am any judge." He squeezed her fingers gently. "You need not worry that you would suddenly have no mental privacy. A bond does not work that way."

Spock watched her digest this, a little of her tension easing as she did so. "So…bonding is marriage?" Her eyes were not so wide now, nor so startled.

"It is more than betrothal, but less than a marriage. The true marriage ceremony is performed at the onset of _Pon Farr._" Finally he could say the words without turning completely green.

That sent her eyebrows up again.

"As I said, you need give me no answer yet, Nyota. There is still much time, and I would not have you say yes if you are not fully sure." The last thing he wanted was for her to agree out of some sense of obligation.

Now it was she who squeezed his fingers, her hands and eyes quite steady. "Yes I do," she said firmly, "and yes, I will. I didn't go through all that for you for nothing. T'Pau told me that in your mind we might as well already be bonded, so let's just make it official."

And then she smiled at him, the first real smile he had seen from her since before the Narada. It was not the same smile; there was something in it now that would never be absent from it again, but it was _her _smile. He quirked an eyebrow in return, and brought her hand to his lips.

"The only question, then," he said, "is when. T'Pau would conduct the actual ceremony, but it can be whenever and wherever you like."

She paused, seeming to think about it. "After Kirk's ceremony," she said, "and before whatever damn thing it is they want to do for me. So…soon." And she drew her hand away so she could lean in to kiss him, very lightly, before resting her head against his shoulder.

---

Once again, I am such a damn sap. Next up is Kirk's ceremony.

As always, thank all you guys for reviewing.


	18. Part XVIII: McCoy

Aaand this is a McCoy POV, because dammit, it's about time. His perspectives on Kirk's captaincy (and everyone in general) have been fun and surprising to write. Oh cranky irascible doctors, I love them.

----

The sea of cadets was silent the next day, a watchful assembly of red uniforms, inquisitive eyes--far fewer, McCoy thought, than there ought to be. He was standing at attention in the very front row, watching as Jim moved forward to receive his commendation.

His friend had…changed, he thought. As a doctor he made note of people's body language, and Jim's was more…'subtle wasn't the word; restrained, perhaps, harnessing the self-confidence that had been tested and passed. All in all, he was damn glad he'd smuggled Jim onto the Enterprise, or they'd all be dead right now, along with the crew of the other ships who had warped right into Nero's trap--them, and maybe all of Earth; maybe all the Federation, in time. Jim deserved this, even if he _was _young. And McCoy would be happy to serve under him as captain, even if his seemingly boundless optimism _did _grate after a while.

He looked at the row of brass seated behind the podiums facing them--a whole assemblage of Admirals, even the goddamn President of the Federation. This would not, he thought, be the last ceremony Jim would be attending in the next weeks--a thought he would enjoy, but which made McCoy inwardly groan, because he knew he'd wind up getting dragged along with. He had better things to do then stand around in his dress uniform, even if he _was _happy for his friend.

He glanced surreptitiously at Spock, who seemed rather more at home in his stiff dress uniform--well, he would be, wouldn't he? He was sans Uhura, though that was not really a surprise. It was difficult to read his facial expressions, but from what McCoy could see he seemed almost…glad. Huh.

He looked forward again when Admiral Michaelson spoke, his deep voice rolling through the entire room.

"For courage, valor, resourcefulness, and leadership, I hereby award you, James Tiberius Kirk, with this medal of commendation, and officially promote you to Captain of the U.S.S. Enterprise. You are hereby ordered to report to Admiral Christopher Pike for duty."

McCoy glanced at Pike, sitting straight and dignified in his wheelchair. Eventually he'd be able to get out of it, but would probably need a cane for the rest of his life. Nero had worked him over _bad_. He didn't seem to mind, though, and the pride in his face seemed almost…paternal, if McCoy was any judge. It only deepened when Jim moved toward him and saluted--correctly, for once.

"I relieve you, sir," he said formally, so formally McCoy's eyebrows went up. He saw the faintest half-smile tug at the corner of Pike's mouth.

"I am relieved," he said, just as formally, and his tone indicated he meant it on more than one level. McCoy couldn't see it, but he'd bet anything Jim was trying not to smile, too, and when Pike shook his hand the whole room went wild--even Spock was applauding as best he could with his broken arm, which to McCoy seemed little short of a miracle. He knew the only reason Spock too wasn't being awarded with a captaincy was because he didn't want one; he'd been very…firm…on that point, no matter what the Admiralty said. He wanted to go back to the Enterprise eventually, like all the rest who had so briefly served aboard her. What they had gone through had united all of them in some intangible but very definite way, and Starfleet knew better than to try to break them up. He'd believed the older Spock, when he said they would all go on to do great things together. After Nero, McCoy felt they could face just about anything.

The younger Spock, he knew, would get his own ceremony--though he'd asked to postpone it, for some damn reason, and of course hadn't said why, the guarded bastard. He had every right to, of course, but at least he could have given some sort of reason.

Pike was saying something else to Jim, but McCoy couldn't hear it over all the noise. Whatever it was, it seemed to make Jim happy. It seemed to make Jim's _mother _happy, too--there were tears in her eyes, and when Jim stepped toward her she caught him in a fierce hug. Unsurprisingly, his stepfather was conspicuously absent; McCoy had heard enough about the man to know Jim wouldn't want him anywhere near a day like this. What _was _a little surprising was that Winona would agree to it.

Now there was just the after-party to be got through--drinks and cake and little fiddly nibble-things , and a lot of conversation. For Jim's sake he could put up with _that, _too, though it was definitely not his idea of a good time. He'd have to do it at Spock's and Uhura's, too, he thought with an inward groan, though who knew how long it would be until she was ready for such a public thing. He really hoped Pike wasn't planning on presenting her with that murder weapon hanging on his wall--_that _wouldn't end anything but badly.

He couldn't think about it any longer--Jim caught him and dragged him off. He was grinning like a Cheshire cat, so clearly on top of the world it was, in McCoy's opinion, almost ridiculous.

"Let's eat already," he said. "Where's Chekov and Sulu?"

"Beats me. Damn crowd's so big I could almost lose myself. We'll probably find 'em at the reception."

Spock appeared at his side, so suddenly he almost jumped. "Don't _do _that. Come on, let's get this dog-and-pony show moved on and over with."

Spock arched an eyebrow, but elected not to comment on the metaphor. "You are the most anti-social human I have ever met," he said instead, earning himself a glower.

The after-party was held in the Academy's reception hall, a truly massive room, all tall windows and pale marble. Sun slanted in large rectangles over the tables piled high with food and--of course--several massive cakes. A whole herd of people had already beaten them here, moving about with plates and glasses of wine--no whiskey in sight, he thought morosely. Figured.

They did find Chekov and Sulu, though--the former still bearing a truly massive collection of scrapes and bruises, and an only partially-healed split lip. He was grinning even wider than Jim, too--McCoy had to remind himself that at seventeen, the marks of a true brawl were a cause for pride, not irritation.

"Congratulations," he said, and actually hugged Jim, which made McCoy have to hastily smother a laugh. He wasn't the only one, either--Sulu turned a snort into a cough at Jim's truly startled look.

"Uh, yeah. You look like hell," he said, when Chekov stepped back. "What've you two been doing, anyway?"

"Sulu has been teaching me fencing," Chekov said enthusiastically, and McCoy wondered how many of those bruises the kid had acquired _after _the Narada. Hopefully his enthusiasm wouldn't prove to be terminal.

"He's got his own special way of doing it, too," Sulu said, wincing. "For such a skinny kid he's awfully strong."

Now it was Jim who laughed. "C'mon, let's get some food--I want to hear about this." McCoy just bet he did, too.

He hung back with Spock when the three descended on the food, shaking his head. "How's the arm?" he asked, glancing at the cast.

"Healing adequately, though the doctors tell me I may not remove it for some time yet. As I have never broken any bones before, I have no choice but to take their word for it." He said it so dryly McCoy couldn't help but snort, and feel sorry for whatever doctor had to deal with him.

"How's Uhura, too?" he asked, a little more carefully, and was startled to see Spock's expression soften.

"Very much better, now. She was here today, too, though not publicly. I believe my elder counterpart escorted her to view from some place they could not be observed themselves." The way he spoke of Uhura made it quite plain that Vulcans were not as emotionless as they wanted people to believe.

"Glad to hear it," McCoy said. "Is that why you've pushed your own version of this circus back?"

Spock quirked an eyebrow. "I have reasons," he said. "You will know them soon enough, once I have consulted further with Nyota."

Now that the hell did that mean? he wondered. _Vulcans--_damn cagey bastards, all of them. At least Spock too seemed to be doing okay, and not just physically. McCoy had been more than a little worried for his sanity, for a while, but he seemed to be recovering as well as the rest of them.

"You think you'll manage to make it back to the Enterprise, eventually?" he asked.

"In time, yes. Whenever Nyota is ready to take up active duty again. I believe it will be good for both of us, when we do."

At that point Jim and the others re-joined them, all bearing food and alcohol, and McCoy tried not to roll his eyes. Jim's capacity for booze was legendary on campus, and to top it off the lucky bastard seemed immune to hangovers. He'd probably be up half the night once this was through, but for once McCoy wouldn't object to going with him, especially if whiskey was involved. There was always an upside to hanging around Jim, quite apart from his effortless if occasionally irritating optimism. He really did seem to move through life like he didn't care that he didn't know what was going to come next--it would make life on the Enterprise interesting, to say the least.

"Scotty's on his way, Bones, and he said he's bringing booze. Maybe you'll get something you like after all."

That actually made McCoy smile a little--trust a Scotsman. Hell, his family was originally Scott themselves--no wonder they had such an appreciation for good whiskey. Jim…tended to appreciate whiskey whether it was good or bad, but McCoy had been trying to indoctrinate some actual _taste _into him before they'd all left on the Enterprise; maybe tonight would be time to continue that. They probably wouldn't be able to get Spock and Uhura to come along, but a night out sounded a lot more fun than this sort of duty-reception. All McCoy could do was try to find a wall and try even harder to be inconspicuous.

----

It was nearly eleven before they made it out of the reception hall, all in various states of intoxication already. The night had grown cool, the sky black and cloudless and smattered with stars and the winking glow of satellites. The streets were crowded with cadets and guests, many of whom weren't precisely sober themselves, so dodging and weaving through the throng was a conscious effort.

They let Scotty choose the bar, a place he'd missed terribly during his six-month stay on Delta Vega--a place that was very…Scottish, all dark polished wood and tartan and rows of glittering glass bottles lined up along the wall behind the bar. A few dim lights and friendly shadows, the unmistakable scent of pub-food (much of it fried), and an almost palpable haze of alcohol. Yes, McCoy thought, this would about do it.

Scotty was given the task of ordering, since he knew best what this place had to offer, and the rest of them collapsed into a booth. Jim was just intoxicated enough to be very _happy _rather than falling-down drunk, Sulu seemed at least passably sober, but Chekov, who in addition to being seventeen couldn't weigh more than a buck twenty wringing wet, was so hammered he could hardly walk. He'd been trying to sing some song in Russian the whole way there, but kept forgetting halfway through the second verse and starting over. McCoy had a feeling he would be issuing a lot of anti-headache and anti-nausea pills tomorrow. Possibly to Sulu, too; no way of telling how the kid would handle his alcohol until he'd had enough to get smashed.

"Y'know, they say we're not supposed to bring alcohol onto Federation ships," he said, shaking his head at the sheer idiocy.

"Screw _that._ Call it…call it a 'personal effect'," Jim said, with all the imperiousness of the tipsy. "'S long as it's not something dangerous, they can't stop you."

Chekov, half slumped against the seat, raised a hand as though he were in class. "I could call it a cultural item," he said, grinning a little vacantly. "Ve inwented vodka in Russia."

Jim snorted, sitting up a little straighter when Scotty returned with five mugs, five full glasses, and what looked like a small bucket of something whose scent hit him like a wall--good grief, McCoy thought, the engineer didn't play at half-measures, did he?

"All right, there's a MacAlister, Rob Roy, Clansman, MacLaren, Scotch Mist, and then this." He set the pitcher…bucket…whatever down on the table, and even McCoy reeled a little at the fumes.

"What _is _that?" Jim asked, squinting.

"A het pint." McCoy moved over so Scotty could sit.

"…What's in it?" Sulu asked cautiously.

"All ye need to know is it's four pints pale ale an' one pint whiskey. Normally we'd drink it on New Year's Day, but this's kind've like New Year's--new start an' all that." Scotty filled his mug, dipping it right into the bucket, inhaling deeply. McCoy arched an eyebrow.

"You just wanted a bucket of booze, didn't you?" he asked shrewdly. Whatever was in it (besides enough alcohol to kill a horse) certainly _smelled _good, even if it was probably going to strip his sinuses for weeks.

One could only describe Scotty's expression as shifty-eyed. "…Maybe," he hedged, and sipped his mug. "Look, drink up, there's always more where'it came from, right? Cheers." He raised his mug and then, to McCoy's horrified admiration, downed half of it at one go. That he could drink that much alcohol in one gulp and remain vertical was not half so surprising as the fact that he could do so and remain _breathing_. Oh, the Scotts.

Chekov dipped himself a mug, sniffed it, sipped it cautiously, and immediately spluttered. That made McCoy curious enough to try it himself, and one gulp told him why the kid had choked--that stuff didn't just burn, it damn near _irradiated_. Tasty, though--what of it he _could _taste under the alcohol. Addictive, too, he thought, taking another gulp. He had an unfortunate feeling they were all going to get dumped into a cab to get home tonight by reason of being unable to walk.

"So…okay…okay…_so_," Jim said, waving his mug. "S'we've gotta fill out th' rest've the crew, right? You need a nurse, and I need…I need…what the hell else _do _I need?" he asked, a little vaguely. Having no answer to this question, he settled for draining the rest of his mug so fast McCoy winced.

"Yeoman," Sulu said, just as vaguely. His face was flushed, his eyes a little unfocused. "An' a nurse. Few nurses, I think, right?"

"I like nurses," Jim said, a little wistfully.

"I know," McCoy said dryly, sipping again. This stuff really was curiously…warming, starting in his stomach and spreading out to his fingertips, the roots of his hair. "I need at least one, and Scotty…you need…huh." Quite suddenly he'd completely lost his train of thought. He hadn't had _that _much to drink. Yet.

"Ve should not have to replace so much of the crew," Chekov said, staring morosely into his mug. He added something in Russian, something which none of them understood but didn't have to--profanity knew no lingual barriers. "_Nero_. How could anyone hate that much?"

"I dunno," McCoy said, trying not to lose his good mood. "But we beat him. _You _beat him," he said, raising his mug at Jim. "We all did, but you and Spock and Uhura--hell, I don't know about you, but I think we could take on damn near anything now."

Jim raised his mug. "Here's to it," he said. "Take on the universe, dammit. Find everything that's out there to find. Make sure there's never another Nero."

"Cheers t' that," Scotty said, raising his mug as well. "T' all've it. Boldly…goin'…um." He paused. "I was goin' _somewhere_ with that, wasnae I?"

"Boldly going somewhere," Sulu contributed, upending his mug. "Anywhere."

"Everywhere," Chekov put in, mostly intelligible.

"Where no one…hey, ew, that shouldn't be sticky…where no one has gone before," Jim added. He looked like he was trying to come up with something profound, but Chekov's face hit the table before he could, and he started laughing so hard he could hardly sit upright himself.

McCoy rolled his eyes even as the warmth of the liquor made him cozily lazy. "Unbelievable," he muttered. "Here, gimme some more of that."

----

Researching Scottish drinks for this chapter was…interesting…to say the least. Now I want to try to make some of them, especially the het pint. _Four pints of ale and half a pint of whiskey. _And it's supposed to be drunk on New Year's _morning_. That sounds like a recipe for a memorable New Year's Day, if nothing else--provided you like spending January second dead of a hangover.

As always, thank you to everyone who's reviewing. Next up will be Spock and Uhura's bonding ceremony--a nice small private thing with just the people closest to them. I'm still going to be a little mean to them, but not too much, because I've done more than enough already.


	19. Part XIX: Kirk

Man, this thing was originally conceived as a _tragedy _(and to have been about half this long). Apparently my brain has decided that this time at least, everyone will wind up okay. (What my next story will wind up may be another thing entirely.) I decided to do this from Kirk's POV because he saw just what Spock was willing to do for Uhura, and what Uhura would do for Spock (even though, well, _everyone _saw that). The way he sees things has changed, too; his perspective is more adult now, a little more aware of the subtleties around him.

Next chapter will be Spock and Uhura, though don't look for any smut just yet--Uhura might have got rid of Nero, but she's not going to be ready for that for quite a while. While I have no problem with the idea of comfort!sex, I don't think it would work in the context of this particular story, what with everything Uhura went through. It'll happen when she's ready.

----

Kirk had absolutely no idea what to expect from a Vulcan bonding ceremony.

He was pretty hazy on what a bonding even _was_, honestly, other than some kind of joining of minds--was it marriage, or what? Spock of course hadn't actually explained that when he'd invited Kirk and Bones; all he'd said was that he and Uhura would appreciate it if they attended. Pike too--he'd basically pulled rank and got himself a day off to attend this…whatever it actually was. Kirk wondered what he would make of the elder Spock, who would also be there--it was always a little amusing to watch someone else's brain break as it tried to wrap around the idea, especially if the younger Spock were also present.

Since this wasn't a Starfleet function, neither he nor Bones were wearing uniforms, instead opting for what little formal civilian wear they owned--dark trousers and a white shirt in Kirk's case, tan slacks and a green button-down flannel in Bones's. Out of Southern habit Bones was also bearing a bottle of very fine bourbon, despite the fact that Spock at least would almost certainly not drink it.

Kirk hadn't known what the hell to get them for a gift, or even if a Vulcan wedding/bonding/whatever was supposed to _have _gifts, but he'd finally decided to take a bit from one of the smashed bulkheads of the Enterprise and have it melted and molded into the Starfleet emblem, along with a little note saying what it was and why he was giving it. He'd been wise and had someone else wrap it, and the neat little box was currently residing in his left pocket.

The Vulcan Embassy looked even more forbidding than usual as they approached, though business seemed to be going about unaltered; Kirk had been given to understand that the ceremony itself would be quite small, so most of these Vulcans must just be doing their normal thing. It was hot enough that he hoped the garden would have a little shade, though to the Vulcans it must seem quite cool.

"He could've at least told us what to expect," Bones grumbled, but it was an automatic grumble, almost a reflex. Kirk knew that he too was glad for these two, even if he wasn't about to actually _show _it.

"Why ruin the surprise?" he said with a half-grin, as they made their way through the main entrance hall and out into the garden beyond.

They followed a long paved path to a secluded section at the back of the garden, and found Spock's father, T'Pau, the elder Spock, and Captain Pike assembled before a huge jadeite gong. Kirk wondered what explanation had been given to Sarek about the elder Spock, who had not wished Sarek to know his identity; maybe T'Pau wouldn't give any and Sarek wouldn't ask. Neither Spock nor Uhura were in sight--maybe this bit was a little more like many Earth ceremonies.

They took up rather awkward places beside Pike; Kirk attempted the finger-torturing taal sign, but Bones settled for as gentlemanly Southern a bow as anyone could be capable of. Kirk saw T'Pau twitch an eyebrow at that--offended, or amused? With Vulcans it was too damn hard to tell. The older Spock was most definitely amused, at least.

That was it--no other guests. Kirk didn't know anything about Uhura's family, where they lived or even how much family she _had._ Pike seemed to be standing in for her parents, if this ceremony was even roughly like what Kirk was used to. He too was in civilian dress, a dark suit, and Sarek was very…Vulcan. Kirk had never seen ceremonial Vulcan attire before, and found himself wondering how much all those layers had to weigh--robe upon robe, embroidered in a dozen shades of desert. You sort of expected it from T'Pau, but this was Spock's _dad_. And how was he not dead of heat stroke? Vulcan must have been a legitimate oven.

The stood uncomfortably still until T'Pau unclasped her hands, and Spock walked around the right curve of the path to stand before her. His getup was as mind-boggling as his father's--rust-colored robes embroidered with black, elaborately swirling and snaking over the fabric. He moved noiselessly to stand at T'Pau's left, and as soon as he'd stopped, Uhura moved in from the other direction, and Kirk stared.

Her outfit was Vulcan, too, but the whole thing was several different shades of shimmering silver. It set off her skin and hair, which hung loose and smooth down her back. Good _grief_ was she beautiful, he thought, as she came to rest at T'Pau's right. They must have already practiced this or something, because as soon as she got there both knelt down, bowing their heads. T'Pau's aged hands touched both their temples, and she said something in what had to be Old High Vulcan--which she then, surprisingly, translated for the humans. "Parted and never parted," she said, "never and always touching and touched. I bond thee as Vulcans have bonded since long before the time of Surak, in the most ancient ritual of our people, a bond broken only by death."

Kirk watched them closely, searching for some sign, some difference, and found it when they stood and looked at one another. There was a sort of communion in their glance that he'd never seen shared between two people, even the most starry-eyed and gooey of human couples. It startled him, and for a moment he actually felt a weird pang of loss with the knowledge that he myself would never know it, even if he did someday settle down.

He glanced at the elder Spock, who was watching with…wistfulness, he thought, and maybe a tinge of regret. How weird must this be for him, Kirk wondered--watching his younger self do what he had never done. He seemed happy for them though, in his Vulcan way--aside from his younger self, he was the most expressive Vulcan Kirk had ever seen.

"Thee are now bonded, Spock, son of Sarek, son of Skonn, and Nyota, daughter of Samara, daughter of Amira."

Spock raised his right hand, index and middle fingers paired, and Uhura met the gesture, lightly touching his fingers with her own. For a brief moment _she _looked startled--whatever effect that touch had was probably not something she had ever felt before. Huh.

And that seemed to be that. He watched Sarek move forward, saying something to them both in Vulcan, and inclining his head. The elder Spock followed, and whatever _he _said made his younger self quirk an eyebrow.

Pike went next, and made Uhura smile, and then it was Kirk's turn. He had no idea if there was anything in particular he was meant to say, so he settled for, "Congratulations. I, uh, I've got a present for you, if there's any pointing here we're supposed to give them." He drew the little box out of his pocket and handed it to Uhura, who unwrapped it curiously.

"I had Scotty keep some of the broken bulkhead so I could have that made," he said, as she turned the emblem over in her fingers. "You guys really saved all of us, so I thought you ought to, uh, get something from someone who was there, not just some Starfleet stuffed shirt."

He was surprised to see tears in Uhura's eyes as she passed the little thing to Spock. "Oh, jeeze, I didn't mean to make you cry," he said, and was more surprised still when she cut him off with a hug.

"Thank you," she said softly, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand. Kirk, embarrassed, waved a hand.

"It seemed…right," he said lamely. "I'm glad you like it."

"It is indeed…right," Spock said, looking like he was having to actively search for the words he wanted. "Thank you, Jim."

"Scotty wants to take you out to his pub later, if you're willing. Just don't let him order a het pint." That thing had actually managed to give _him _a hangover.

"Perhaps," Spock said, and Kirk would swear there was amusement in his eyes.

He moved on, letting Bones present his alcohol, and made his way to Pike, who'd wheeled himself into the shade. "Kinda weird, isn't it?" he said. "I had no idea about those two until the Narada."

Pike gave a half-smile. "I did," he said. "Technically it was against the rules, but what wasn't obvious wasn't any of my business. I'm glad they could do this. Hell, they deserve it." _Deserve it after everything else,_ was the unsaid part of that statement. Kirk was glad they were both okay enough to do something this major so soon--it meant they would probably both _stay _okay, that Nero hadn't screwed either one up beyond repair.

"Can I have them both on the Enterprise, now that they're…married, or whatever?" His parents had served on the same ship, but he hadn't checked to make sure the regs hadn't changed.

"Yeah, there won't be any problem with that." Pike's tone indicated that even if someone _was _unwise enough to challenge it, they'd regret it. "What was that thing you gave them?"

"A little piece of the Enterprise. Sort of a…trophy, I guess. To remind them they won."

He paused, uncertain how to ask his own question. "How come you kept that thing?" he said. "The thing Uhura killed Nero with? I'm pretty sure she's never going to want to see it again."

Pike gave him a crooked half-smile. "To remind everyone else we won. She doesn't ever need to see it, but I knew the Admiralty would want it. Tangible proof, you know. A reminder that nobody ought to tangle with the Enterprise."

Kirk choked back a laugh--he could just imagine some other Admiral trying to interfere with Pike's protection of his crew while having to look at that thing. That would be a deterrent if anything ever was. God knew Uhura had scared the shit out of him with it--_he _didn't want to get on her bad side, either. She'd make a hell of an officer, and if she ever made it to Admiral he didn't think anyone would dare mess with her. She even more than all of them was already well on her way to becoming Starfleet legend--the woman who had killed the destroyer of Vulcan with his own weapon. He hoped she wouldn't find out about that for a while yet, because it was not an honor of which she would be proud.

He looked back at her and Spock, talking low with Spock the elder while T'Pau very effectively distracted Sarek, who had to be curious about this other old guy. How much did the older Spock know about what had really gone on on the Narada? He wasn't sure he wanted to speculate--he, like all of them, tried to think of those few brief days as little as possible, though it was no easy task. That other Spock's Uhura, who had never gone through that--what had she become as she'd grown older? What had they _all _become? _This _Uhura looked far happier now than he would have thought possible only a few days ago. So did Spock, for that matter, even with the broken arm. God, this was weird--hopefully it would get less weird in time.

----

To his surprise, Spock and Uhura actually took Scotty up on his offer.

In civilian clothes, carefully inconspicuous, they met up with the rest of the group in that little hole-in-the-wall pub--Scotty, Sulu, Chekov, as well as Kirk and Bones and Pike. Scotty must have put in some special request to the bartender for some Vulcan drinks, since this didn't look like the sort of place that normally stocked them. They had some now, though, and when the pair joined the rest of them in the booth, Uhura bravely let Scotty order for her. Fortunately, this time there were no het pints involved.

Chekov, whose bruises had faded a little, passed a small package across the table. It was inexpertly wrapped, and it took even Spock a few moments to figure out how to unwrap it. Once he'd managed it, he found an intricately engraved music box, its dark wood inlaid with a delicate pattern of silver filigree. When opened, it played a sweet, melancholy tune Kirk didn't recognize.

"Is traditional wedding gift in Russia,' he explained. "This one is from Tchaikovsky." Kirk knew the name, but still couldn't place the tune. "_Sleeping Beauty_."

Almost before they could thank him, Scotty produced a little box as well, that turned out to contain a small, bright bronze bell. "Not somethin' you're every likely t' need, but it's traditional, too. Ye put it on the mantel and ring it every time you're done arguin', t' bring back harmony." He smirked a little. "My parents used it all the time, but hopefully yours'll stay silent."

Hard on its heels was Sulu's gift, a small silver clock that actually wound up, rather than running automatically. "That's not traditional," he said. "I just like the way it looks."

Kirk didn't manage to stifle a snort as the drinks arrived. He only hoped the two had enough shelf space for all these little things. What a weird assortment, he thought, picking up his drink and wincing a little as it tried gamely to strip all the enamel off his teeth.

"Lieutenant, you've got your own ceremony coming up soon," Pike said, sampling his drink as well. "You ready for it?"

"As ready as I'll ever be," Uhura said, with a little grimace. "It's going to be a zoo, isn't it?"

"Maybe. I told Starfleet to keep it short and sweet, like Kirk's, so hopefully they'll listen to me."

_No kidding_, Kirk thought. But, watching her and Spock, he figured that even if it did turn into a circus, she'd handle it just fine if Spock was there.

----

It's been a long time since I read _Vulcan's Heart_, and I remember very little about how a Vulcan bonding ceremony actually goes, so I just made it up. Next up will see Uhura's ceremony through her own eyes.

As always, thank you all for reviewing.


	20. Part XX: Spock and Uhura

Extra-long chapter this time. In which Uhura still has a few psychological Issues, and Spock at least tries to address them. They're also both still getting used to the bond, especially Uhura.

I've also been railroaded into a second prompt, which, if it works out, I will also post here, along with the plot bunny onimosity gave me. Too many ideas, dammit.

----

To her surprise, on the morning of her own damn ceremony, Uhura was nervous. More than nervous--her hands were actually shaking, sweat beading at her temples.

It wasn't the ceremony itself that disturbed her--she'd been given to understand that would be fairly straightforward. It wasn't even the idea of the press, who would almost certainly ask all kinds of questions she couldn't or wouldn't answer.

It was the uniform.

Spock had noticed, she knew, how carefully she avoided her Starfleet clothing. Until now there had been no reason for that avoidance to be noticed, no situation in which she might be expected to wear it. Now, though, she was of course meant to wear her full dress uniform, and the mere thought of putting it on filled her with near mind-numbing terror. Terror she hoped wasn't telegraphing to Spock through this newly-minted bond of theirs, though if it went on too long she didn't know how he could miss it. And it was so _stupid._ After everything, horror and healing, to be afraid of a _uniform_…why that, out of everything?

_Red fabric parting like paper along the blade of a knife that was far too sharp, a dangerous, potentially deadly tickle against her skin. She never had found out what had happened to the shreds that had remained--all she knew was what had happened after she'd lost it, and she'd _dealt _with that, even if she wasn't and never would make true peace with it--_

Uhura shook her head. _It's just clothing_, she thought, trying to convince herself. _Nothing special, nothing awful. Just a dress and stockings and boots._ She touched the fabric lightly--it wasn't the same as the fabric of ordinary uniforms, which helped. A little. Anyway, she had to get over this if she ever wanted to return to active duty, which naturally she did eventually. She'd be damned if one horrible experience would drive her out of Starfleet, out of something she'd worked so hard for--and she'd be damned if something so stupid as a uniform would make her fall apart. It was over; Nero was dead and gone--nothing could hurt her now.

So she told herself, but she still hesitated to actually put it on--all she could do was stare at it, laid out neatly on the bed. Not until the door opened did she look away, turning to find Spock behind her.

"Something distresses you," he said, taking her hand. "May I help?"

Uhura tried to smile. "It's…it should be nothing," she said. "Just this dumb uniform." She wasn't sure how to explain her problem with it to Spock--it was, after all, completely and utterly illogical. Unfortunately, that made it no less real.

To her surprise, he brushed the hair back from her forehead and said, "You have poor associations with your uniforms. I have noticed you look away whenever you see one in your closet, and your refusal to touch them when you put away your other clothes." There was an odd warmth in his touch that had nothing to do with physical sensation and everything to do with that odd mental communion that was definitely going to take some getting used to.

"Well, yeah," she said, rubbing the back of her neck. "I just…didn't think it would be this hard." If she had, she would have tried to deal with it before now, when she had so little time.

Spock seemed to think a moment. "Here," he said, adjusting the uniform on the bed with his good hand, and drawing her to stand closer. "As you have negative associations with the removal of your uniform, perhaps we might replace them with more positive connotations, this time with putting it on." He held out a questioning hand, fingers resting lightly on the buttons of her shirt, one of the innumerable plain black ones she'd been living in the last few days. With only a few inward misgivings, she nodded wordlessly, and did not flinch when he slowly unfastened the buttons. This was Spock; this was the person she could trust most in the world. She would not be afraid.

And she wasn't, even when he'd reached the last button at the bottom of her shirt, and eased the collar back over her shoulders. Warm air hit her skin--he didn't keep his rooms as hot as Vulcan, because he knew she wouldn't have been able to stand it, but they were rather warmer than Starfleet norm. The Narada had been hot, too, but this warmth was very different--this was a comfort, thinner and drier than the heavy miasma of that damned ship. She helped shrug the shirt down off her arms, tossing it on a nearby chair, and again, almost to her surprise, didn't flinch when he reached for her pants. Those too came off easily enough, leaving her barefoot in her underwear, and acutely conscious of that fact. Only now did she twitch, when she turned to regard her uniform, shivering in a way that had nothing to do with temperature.

Spock touched her hand, warm skin on skin, fingers closing gently around her own. "Do not be afraid, Nyota," he said, his voice as gentle as his touch. "There is nothing here that may harm you."

All she could do was nod. Yes, she knew objectively that there wasn't anything dangerous here in Spock's tidy rooms, but try telling that to her instinctive memory. It was, she reminded herself for the thousandth time, just a uniform, just an outfit, nothing harmful or dangerous to anything save her mind.

_-I am here.- _Spock's voice in her mind was still like nothing she'd ever felt--not a voice, just a thought, a thought not her own that manifested over what she could only think of as an invisible length of spider silk. -_You are not alone anymore, Nyota. Do not forget that.- _And with that thought came a kind of peace, peace enough to still her shaking hands. When he picked up the smooth red dress, unzipping the zipper, she raised her arms almost like a child so he could pull it over her head. The material was cool, lined with some sort of faux silk, and she shuddered a little at the feel of it.

_-I don't know what's wrong with me. I shouldn't be afraid of this.- _She felt him reach behind her to zip up the zipper as she smoothed the sleeves, her fingers lingering at the hem of her cuffs.

-_It has only been four days, however much it may seem longer. It is only logical that you have not yet recovered fully from such an ordeal, in so short a time. Do not deem it stupid, or ridiculous. The mind is a peculiar thing; there is no way of knowing how it might manifest reactions to such stress as you endured.- _He picked up her stockings, filmy and black, and when she sat on the bed he took one foot in his hands. Warm fingers tickled her feet a little, making her smile in spite of herself, and once the stockings were on he helped her with her boots, too.

"See?" he said, drawing her to her feet. "It is only clothing, and I will be with you. If you wish I will face the press with you as well."

"I…definitely do wish." He was right, Uhura realized; it was only clothing, something she wore now because Spock had assisted her with it, had shown her it was all right. She drew a deep, calming breath. "Let's just get this over with."

----

This ceremony was being held outdoors, under a long pavilion in the sun--probably the only place that had enough room for all the press that were currently jostling for a better position. A temporary stage and podium had been rigged up, along with long conference tables for various dignitaries and upper-level Starfleet personnel. A great many cadets were sprinkled around as well, all dignified in their own dress uniforms--a little knot of Enterprise crew among them, having staked out a spot at the very front of the crowd. Chekov, still sporting his fantastic array of bruises; Sulu, looking very uncomfortable and too hot in that high-collared uniform; Scotty, who as always looked secretly amused by something; and the elder Spock, who projected such an air of 'of course I belong here' that nobody seemed about to question it.

They'd saved the younger Spock a seat as well, and he gave Uhura's hand a reassuring squeeze before he sat. -_I am still with you,- _he reminded her, and she gave him a small, fleeting smile before disappearing behind the stage to await her cue.

_-I'm glad. I just want this to be over.-_

_-It will be soon enough. Perhaps Mister Scott will take us out to that pub of his again.-_

_-Oh God, I hope not. The last thing I need is another headache.- _There was actual amusement in the thought, he could tell; good. Perhaps it would make this easier.

Admiral Michaelson, resplendent (and also looking too warm) in his dress uniform, took the stage and the podium, silencing the murmuring of the press. "This is a special sort of ceremony," he said, the microphone amplifying his voice all through the tent and grounds beyond. "Something we've never done before, but until now we've never had this special sort of circumstance. The crew of the U.S.S. Enterprise have all distinguished themselves above and beyond the call of duty, but Lieutenant Nyota Uhura delivered the ultimate _coup de grâce _with the execution of the Romulan war criminal known as Nero."

_Coup de grâce_, Spock thought--what an apt turn of phrase, as he was given to understand the literal meaning of the term was 'blow of mercy'. Killing Nero--and sending his _katra _on--really was a strange sort of mercy, though neither Michaelson nor most others had any idea how fitting it was to call it 'mercy'. It would not, he knew, be lost on Nyota.

"In doing so she and the entire crew of the Enterprise succeeded in preventing Nero from destroying the rest of the United Federation of Planets, a task he might easily have accomplished had no one succeeded in stopping him. And so it is our honor to present her with this award of merit not only from Starfleet, but from the entire Federation."

That must have been her cue, for Nyota mounted the steps and crossed the stage, her expression almost entirely composed--Spock was probably the only one who would really be able to read the signs of nervousness in her face. The sun glinted off all that shiny dark hair, smooth as silk, with a few errant strands caught by the mild ocean breeze. Admiral Michaelson opened a large, flat, black velvet box, and from it removed a gold medallion on a red silk ribbon. Spock watched her tense a very little at the sight of it, and sent a wordless sense of calm through their bond, causing her to look at him just a moment, something very like gratitude in her dark eyes.

No sooner had the medallion been lowered over her head than the applause started--punctilious and correct on the part of the media, loud and enthusiastic by the cadets. Nyota didn't manage a smile, but she at least bore it without grimacing, and when she sat to deal with the press and its questions, it wasn't only Spock who joined her; Kirk moved to her other side, clearly also wanting to give what the humans termed 'moral support', whatever that actually meant. His captain's dress uniform suited him well, and might help deflect some of the more disturbing personal questions. It was general if vague knowledge that Kirk and Spock in particular had been instrumental in rescuing the crew of the Enterprise, so their presence on either side of her could easily be logically explained.

Uhura leaned toward her microphone. "Before we start, you have to understand that there are a lot of questions I won't be able to answer. A lot of this is still classified, so please don't push if I say I can't comment." How composed she seemed, but Spock could sense the multiple motivations behind that statement--it was, so she hoped, a way to deflect any questions of a personal nature she would not want to answer, even if it wasn't classified.

An Andorian at the very front of the crowd raised a hand, speaking only when Uhura nodded at him. "This is really for all of you, but how is it you came to have any opportunity to escape in the first place?"

The three exchanged glances, silently, and it was Spock who finally answered.

"That is a…difficult question to answer. All we may really say is that not all the Romulans aboard the Narada remained loyal to Nero. At least two of them released us and gave us the opportunity to retake our ship. About that I believe I can say little more."

"Is that how you came to kill Nero, Lieutenant?" This from a human, a blonde woman with a vaguely Midwestern American accent.

Uhura swallowed, considering that for a long moment. "I…think so," she said at last. "You have to understand that everything happened so fast I don't even remember everything. I just…heard the fighting and went to find it."

Next was a Tellerite, a man with far too many PADDs than could possibly be useful. "You two were together in the hold--" a nod at Spock and Kirk "--but where were you, Lieutenant? Why weren't you with them?" There was a subtle nuance to his question that Nyota apparently completely ignored.

"The Romulans had separated us all over the ship," she said, quite matter-of-factly. "Usually in groups of four, sometimes less. I think they thought we'd have less chance of escape that way, and without the help we received from those few crew members, that strategy would probably have worked."

It was a perfectly logical and satisfactory answer, but the Tellerite didn't look satisfied. He was, Spock realized, one of the staff that worked for a very seedy tabloid, one that capitalized on existing scandals and made up what they couldn't really find. This one might be trouble.

"We were indeed held in so many different places it took two point five two hours to locate the majority of the crew. The Narada is over six miles long, and coupled with the need to evade the notice of any nearby Romulans, we were fortunate to gather as many of the crew in one place as we did." There, that added a little cement that Tellerite would have a problem undoing.

"And who were _you _with?" The cant of his questions was becoming a little more obvious now, and Spock found himself wondering why anyone's mind would go there, if they hadn't been there themselves. It must be the result of spending all your time as a scandal-monger--he didn't know how else _anyone's _instinctive thought pattern would wind its way thus without evidence or provocation.

"Without asking them, I'm not sure I should say," Uhura answered smoothly, to his inward pleasure. "This isn't something any of us really wants to talk about. Most of us had never killed anyone before," she added, a little wistfully, and it was that which made the reporter subside, albeit reluctantly. That was apparently not the kind of scandal he was looking for, though Spock could see him already trying to regather his momentum. "It's…not an easy thing, to do or to live with afterward, even if it _was _in combat. Watching somebody die, even if they _are _your enemy…."

The distress in her voice was not feigned, as her calm had been, and though Spock could not publicly take her hand, he could lightly touch her mind, drawing out some of her inner trouble and replacing it with some of his own tranquility. "And to know that you're the one that killed them--it's really not something I think most of us have actually truly dealt with, yet. We were just…cadets, not officers, not soldiers. Without the officers I don't think we would have made it on our own."

Another Andorian this time, one whose expression was much less…_hungry_…than that of the Tellerite. "How afraid were you--all of you? Even you, Commander Spock--I believe this was your first true combat experience."

Again they all exchanged glances, and Kirk took his cue. "I don't know about everybody else, but I was damn terrified," he said candidly, earning a bit of a laugh. "There was so much that could have gone wrong that I just stopped thinking and started moving on instinct. A lot of it's still kind of fuzzy."

"Fuzzy, and too fast," Uhura put in. "I remember being more angry than afraid, too angry to really be cautious, but fortunately for me it took me a while to get to the main firefight. I had a little while to try to get some sort of…of coherent thought back." Spock really was amazed at how she could spin and twist the facts without telling a single outright lie. It was an attribute he had seen in humans before, but Nyota seemed to have a particular talent for it, at least at the moment. Evasive eloquence under pressure?

"I confess I felt a very little fear," Spock admitted--Vulcans weren't supposed to lie, after all. "My…emotional tranquility…was very much disturbed just then." And still was, though he had a much better handle on it now. Even the scandal-hungry Tellerite knew better than to ask why, too--news of Vulcan's destruction had reached every corner of the Federation within hours of its happening. Anybody incautious enough to bring up _that _point would probably find themselves without a job.

Unfortunately, the obnoxious scandal-sniffer wasn't done yet. "I understand the weapon you killed Captain Nero with is somewhere inside Starfleet Headquarters," he said, clearly smug that he even had this knowledge. "Did you bring it back as some kind of trophy?"

Uhura froze. Physically, mentally, everything--Spock felt it all lock down into place, her hands gripping the edge of the table. "I was not aware of that," she said, as evenly as she could. "I didn't bring it myself, and I'm not sure who would have. It's…not a thing that should exist anymore."

"Some kind of bladed thing, am I right? A Romulan sort of spear? How _angry _did you have to be to use something like that, and why?" Good grief, he was persistent, wasn't he? "How did you get ahold of it, anyway?"

Uhura's glare could have fried him on the spot. "First, I'm not at liberty to specify just what sort of weapon it is, though I can confirm it's of Romulan manufacture. My emotional state had very little to do with why I used it, too--it was simply all I had to hand. How I got ahold of it is…also classified, I believe." That really was a tidy way of refusing without lying, Spock thought. And for all any of them knew, it was true; Starfleet wouldn't want that part of the story coming out any more than Nyota herself. "And Nero was…dangerous. So long as he was alive, we were all in too much danger, too much trouble. Almost anyone would have done it in my place."

She was still shivering a little, though only Spock was aware of it. _-It is all right,- _he thought to her. _-You need never see this thing. Remember all who matter know what truly happened, and this outsider is too ignorant to know a thing.-_

"Mm hmm." It was a noise that managed--somehow--to be non-committal and skeptical all at once.

----

Uhura had thought she'd left all inclinations toward violence behind her on the Narada, but this son of a bitch was making her seriously reconsider the merits of leaping across a desk and choking someone. Bad enough he'd blindsided her with that damned whatever-it-was weapon--and anybody in Starfleet who'd known about it and hadn't told her was going to hear about it later--but this…this…_thisness_. How dare he? How _dare _he?

"I take it you disagree," she said evenly, somehow managing to keep the contempt out of her voice. "You think we should have left him alive? For what purpose?"

"Well, so we could have heard his side of the story." Now he was just _smug_, she thought.

Kirk leapt in to her rescue. "_His side _consisted of him destroying a planet and almost all six billion of its inhabitants, annihilating most of our secondary fleet, taking us all prisoner and killing close to half of us…you want me to go on? If he'd lived, we wouldn't have. Starfleet might be a peacekeeping force, but there wouldn't have been any peace to _make _with Nero. He would have just kept killing until someone else took him out."

"I agree," Spock interjected. "Nero was…not stable. There was little left in his mind to reason with, and he ignored what little there was."

Uhura was very still. That had all been so complicated that she wasn't sure she could have put it into words even if she'd wanted to--which she really didn't. "He was…broken," she said. "In a way I've never seen, and hope I never see again. He was out of his mind and he knew it, and I think--I think he was almost _grateful _when I killed him."

The tone in her voice made even her Tellerite interrogator pause; it was so terribly thoughtful, softly, unhappily contemplative. She was looking at her hands, the hands that had so spectacularly deprived a man of his life, as if she hadn't ever seen them before. "From what little I saw of him, Nero was irredeemable. I don't think those crewmen would have given us a chance if he wasn't--they _knew _it just as well as we did. He would have kept going until there was nothing left to destroy, and then even his own people didn't know what he would have done."

Nobody interrupted her now--not the Tellerite, not Kirk or Spock, nobody. This was almost a weird sort of…of therapy, getting all this out into the open, even in this broken, imperfect, secretive fashion. "He wasn't the same man they'd known before they all came back in time, before they destroyed Vulcan. You know they wanted revenge, right--twisted revenge against people who hadn't actually wronged them. After Romulus was destroyed in their future, he turned into this monster that everybody saw, but he hadn't always been that way and his crew knew it. I think…they regretted it, how much they all changed, even if they still saw what they did to Vulcan as justified."

She was still staring at her hands, her interlaced fingers with their neatly manicured nails. "There wasn't any going back for him, or for any of them, and there wasn't really anywhere forward for them to go, and they knew that, too. I think a lot of them wanted to die, not just Nero--they were just a little better at expressing it to themselves. He was so…_surprised_ when I killed him, but just before I did it I swear he was grateful. And Ayel--I only saw him briefly, but I know he was one of the ones who first let some of us out, and then he died himself, and I think he did it on purpose, too. They'd gone so far over the line that there wasn't anywhere else to go."

Uhura shut her eyes, blocking out the sight of so many people. Strangely, she felt no urge to cry, no incipient tears; this was a purging of a different sort, quieter and more controlled than any bout of weeping. "Am I sorry it came to that? Of course I am. Not many people really truly want to kill someone else, but with Nero there was no alternative. If we'd left him alive he would only have tried to do something even worse."

She flexed her wrist a very little, the wrist Nero had cracked. All the little injuries he'd done her were covered by either her uniform or her hair; there was no outward way for anyone to know just how she'd come by all this information and these conclusions. No way to realize just how up close and personal they'd been, both before and after his death, or how she had come to realize so much about him and his crew.

Silence followed that, unbroken even by her tabloid pursuer. There was something in her voice, her expression, her _everything_, that precluded any more questions, however curious people might be as to how she had come to any of those conclusions. Some things were best left unasked, as even the Tellerite seemed to realize.

"I'm not sure there's much else I can say," she said, quietly. "There isn't a lot that isn't completely classified. Just…this is something that's behind us, and we'd all like to leave it there. There's too much worth doing in the future to dwell on what's done."

She shut her eyes briefly, knowing it was true, but still needing to consciously remind herself. It would probably be a long, long time yet before she could think to the future without having to tell herself to do so.

But they were all getting there.

----

As always, thank you to all my lovely reviewers. I am honestly not entirely sure what is coming next, only that eventually we will indeed have some Spock/Uhura action. XD


	21. Part XXI: Spock

A/N: And, slowly but surely, everyone moves toward the Enterprise. Soon enough Uhura is going to have to talk to someone _human _about all this.

Updates will probably be a bit slower than they have been, but I'll try to get one out every few days or so. RL and another prompt are eating up a little more of my time than they were.

----

A week passed, and then two. With Nyota's blessing Spock returned to work, and Nyota herself resumed her studies with private tutors--as yet she still wasn't ready to face classes with other cadets. He took the fact that she wanted to continue her education as a good sign, though, and helped her himself in the evenings.

The other five dropped by whenever they got a spare moment, which in Jim's case was not often--he was, Spock knew, very busy organizing replacements for the crew that had been lost on the Narada. He was always cheerful when he did drop in, though, bearing news or alcohol or both.

Doctor McCoy was no less busy, but every other day he insisted on checking the progress of Spock's arm--an illogical need, Spock thought, since even Vulcan bones healed little faster than human. It finally--quite belatedly--occurred to him that the doctor was simply using it as an excuse to visit, which was even more illogical. One did not need an excuse to call on one's friends, but the ways of the irascible Doctor McCoy were proving quite unfathomable.

Chekov and Sulu certainly needed no excuses--it was they who brought news from the Academy itself, news that Spock, being an instructor, was not likely to hear. Chekov was also giving Nyota what humans referred to as a 'crash course' in Russian; as her study had largely consisted of alien languages, she actually spoke very few Terran dialects. His method of teaching largely consisted of chattering at her until she picked up what he was saying--which she did quite rapidly to his surprise, though not to Spock's. Sulu promised to do the same for Japanese, once he had a chance.

Each night she would curl up beside Spock, and sleep more or less normally--but, though he maintained his shield on their bond when they slept, he knew she was subject to some horrible nightmares. What seemed like every other night she would wake with a jerk, and either touch his face or smell his skin--assuring herself, presumably, that he was himself and not Nero. Given the comparable body heat of Vulcans and Romulans, he could understand why he would do so, but the fact that Nero had given her any need to angered him.

She had a habit of sniffing him even when awake, a habit whose genesis he could only guess, and he wasn't about to ask. Nyota was possessed of a very keen sense of smell--she was very choosy about her shampoos and things because of it--and he could only surmise she was having difficulty shaking off the memory of Nero's scent. She had, unfortunately, spent enough time in very close proximity to him to have its memory burned into her mind. So Spock took care to wear her favorite aftershave, to have his clothes laundered with a particular detergent, and often burned incense to ensure his rooms reminded her she was home. And, little by little, slowly but surely, it seemed to be working. She no longer jumped at small noises; she would take walks in town provided she was dressed so no one would recognize her. Several times she'd even gone with Scotty to his pub, though one experience with a het pint was apparently enough for her.

Neither had as yet made any commitment as to when they would return to active duty--Spock was waiting until Nyota did, and he would not push her. Jim wouldn't, either; he was holding both their places until they were ready. Given how long it was likely to take the Enterprise to be repaired and the rest of the crew put in order, it was little hardship on him to do so.

They were finally alone, the evening that marked the end of the second week--Chekov, Sulu, and Scotty had gone home for the night, and Spock now sat on the sofa with Nyota curled up with her head on his shoulder. She was vaguely uneasy, he could feel it; what was more, she didn't seem to know why.

"What is it?" he asked, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear--an action that actually made her twitch, tensing for a very brief moment. "Something bothers you."

She laughed a little, or tried to. "I just…I think we should visit the Enterprise, some time when no one else is around. I don't want it to come time to ship out and have a repeat of the uniform."

It was both sensible and logical, and it was also not at all what was really bothering her. He couldn't push her, though, not really; all he could do was be patient and maybe try to guide her.

"You are concerned as to what effect the ship will have on you?" he said. "It should be simple enough to visit Mister Scott some evening--I am certain he would be happy to lead us all over the ship." Probably providing an exhausting overabundance of technical information, too, he thought but did not say.

She shifted, and even he barely caught her shiver. "I _hate _this," she said suddenly, vehemently, and hot anger surged across their bond. "I hate that it's necessary--I hate that I'm afraid of my own uniform, that I'm afraid of the ship I've wanted to serve on since it was built. All because of goddamn _Nero_."

Nyota stood, pacing restlessly, scrubbing a hand through her hair. "How long is this going to last? Am I honestly stuck carrying this--_this_--for the rest of my life? I don't want to look at the stars and remember that ship and that son of a _bitch_ and--and everything that happened there…"

She trailed off, wiping an angry hand over her eyes. The sheer force of her motion was little short of staggering, even with the barrier he held--and his own anger wasn't helping, either, anger that mirrored hers. Just how permanent a damage had Nero done her? Even with the small improvements she made daily, it would be years before she would truly be free of it, if ever. Watching her in such explosive distress made him wish once again that he could strangle Nero. At least his _katra _was out of her head--she no longer bore _that _burden, if nothing else, but how much longer would it haunt her? So much about the operation of the human mind, even Nyota's, was still a mystery to him--half human though he was, he'd lived his whole life trying desperately to be as Vulcan as he could. He regretted it bitterly now, now that he did not know what to do for her but be there. Maybe that was all he could have done anyway.

He thought fleetingly of Doctor McCoy, who had, Spock knew, training in human psychology. It might well be a long while yet before Nyota was ready to talk about it to anyone but him, but he hoped that sooner or later she would be, that she would be able to draw strength from more than one person.

"And that _damn _reporter," she went on, still pacing. "How dare he? How _would _he? Maybe a lot of people who were there, who saw it might have guessed, but _that _guy--why would his mind even go there?"

"That is where the minds of his kind always go," Spock said gently. "I believe the term is 'scandal-monger'. Even had that not happened to you, he still would have thought it, because his sort has no concept of real strength, real…nobility." He was fairly certain that was the word he wanted.

He paused, and then, "Would you--consider speaking to anyone else about this? Doctor McCoy, perhaps? I am afraid I may not be able to help you on my own--you should have more than just me."

He watched that sink in. McCoy was one of the few people who actually _knew _what had happened to her on that ship. What was more, he was her brother-officer, one who would be serving with her aboard the Enterprise--and he was human. He would be able to understand the tangle of her emotions with an immediacy that Spock, with his lifetime of Vulcan training, simply couldn't--not yet, anyway. He had neglected his human half for so long that it would take some time to acquaint himself with it, to feel out its strengths and weaknesses. It was almost like being a child again, but the odd _wonder _of its discovery helped him deal with his own catastrophic loss--even if, with that awakening humanity, there also came an ebb and flow of grief unlike anything he had ever known.

"I…don't know. Maybe." He felt a wave of regret through the bond, and with it a name--Gaila, her dead roommate. Did she wish a female friend to confide in? So many of their class had died that was possible she lad lost _all _her female friends. Perhaps Nurse Chapel could assist, if Nyota wanted another woman to speak to. He would have to ask Doctor McCoy.

For himself, he thought he ought to speak with his elder self soon. Nyota wasn't the only one who ought to seek companionable assistance outside their bond, and if anyone could understand his grief, it was, well, himself. The elder Spock reminded him of his father, or what his father might have been had his mother lived. He could only hope that he would achieve that level of…it wasn't precisely peace; for once precision of language failed him, for he didn't know _what _it was, only that he hoped he might attain it when he reached his counterpart's age. He'd lost much more than that Spock, but in Nyota he'd also gained more; perhaps that loss and gain would balance, in time. He knew too that the elder Spock shared his particular grief at Amanda's death; his father had lost his wife, but she had been the other Spock's mother as well. Though she had to have been long dead in his timeline, too, she'd died much later, after as long a life as a human might be allowed.

He did not and never had let himself think of the fact that, if they lived their natural lifespans, he would long outlive Nyota. Such speculation was illogical, especially when they were both so young; it would be many years yet before he would be forced to face that fact. They both had more than enough to deal with right now anyway.

"You know I will always be here, Nyota," he said quietly, stroking her hair. "Do not be afraid to tell me anything."

"Some of it's so…so _ridiculous_, and shameful, and--" she broke off, shivering. "Every time I think I've made so much progress, something like _this _comes along."

_-It has only been what Terrans call a fortnight.- _He let what calm he could gather flow along the bond, trying his best to soothe her. -_Do not let it frustrate you. You will heal as you can.-_

She wrapped her arms around her torso, and the thought that returned to him was vastly unhappy. -_There are things I don't even want to think of myself,-_ she said. -_How can I share them with you? Even you might judge me for them, but no matter what I do I can't get them out of my head, even though they're so horrible. I almost want to drill a hold in my head to get them out.-_

_-About Nero?- _he asked gently, and she nodded. He thought he understood much more about that than she realized, in an abstract sense at least, but he would let her tell it in her own time and her own words.

A wave of shame and no little horror passed to him through the bond--much more than her nod, that confirmed his suspicions. -_I told you what he did on the ship, and what _I _did, but--after, when he was in my head…- _She shook her own head, as though trying to dislodge even the memory of Nero. _-He…loved me, in some insane, broken way, and even if I'll never forgive him I felt _sorry _for him. And--he touched me, and he kissed me once, and I didn't _stop him_, and--you can't tell me _that's _right.-_

Spock felt a moment of carefully-concealed anger--as always not at her, but at Nero, who had so twisted her mind that even she didn't trust its reactions. He didn't say anything--didn't know what _to _say--all he could do was hold her, and try to tell her without words that there was nothing _wrong _in that. Yes, a Vulcan would have controlled their thoughts, their reactions, but Nyota was human, and it was that humanity he loved in her, the weakness as well as the strength. What Nero had done to her would have destroyed a lesser person of any race--the mental violation even more than the physical.

-_There is no 'right' or 'wrong' here,-_ he said at last, once again stroking her hair. _-There is still only survival. There is no shame in such confusion.- _Now more than ever did he think she really did need to talk to someone aside from himself, and the best candidate was McCoy. He'd have a word with the doctor tomorrow, to inform him what he'd be likely to be dealing with so as not to be blindsided by anything she might say. And…perhaps it was best if he not tell her that, just yet. For now, all he could do was be.

----

Next up is THERAPY TIME, and, as ever, a big thank-you to all my reviewers. :)


	22. Part XXII: Spock Prime

OMG, I am SO SORRY I took so long to update. Real life has a very nasty habit of rearing its ugly head right when you don't want it to, and then I lost the thread completely. I finally think I'm back on track, though I doubt I'll be able to update as fast as I did earlier (I was putting out a chapter a DAY at one point). Also, writing this chapter drove me half-mad because they're both _Spock_, and keeping that straight in the narrative was mind-bending.

I did this one from Spock Prime's perspective because he knows, in a very real sense, how younger Spock will handle grief, and because he himself is still mourning many things. _Treasure Island _and the story behind it belong to one of the few ST novels I've actually read, _The Pandora Principle_--I'd recommend it, it's pretty good.

----

The morning was warm even for a Terran summer day, when Spock retired to the gardens to meditate--to meditate and to wait for his younger self.

He was unsurprised the younger Spock had thus far kept to himself--the young Vulcan was _him_, after all, and he knew himself well. So far he'd distracted himself by focusing on other people's--particularly Nyota's--problems, but that state could not last indefinitely. Sooner or later young Spock would have to fully face his own loss, quite aside from that of his friends, but it was a thing the elder Spock knew he would delay as long as possible, illogical though it was. It had been well over two weeks, though, and Spock had a feeling his younger self's break would happen any day now. And he meant to be there when it did--for the sake of his younger self, and for his own. He himself had spoken to no one yet, not even T'Pau, but he was older--he had far more experience with loss than this younger Spock. He could wait until the time was right.

So he'd been out here the last few mornings, arriving when the dawn air was still breathless and chill, the water beyond the far terrace smooth as glass. It was a fine place to meditate--and to think of his mother, who had also walked this garden, and had based the one at their home on Vulcan upon it. Sarek had, of course, told him nothing of his courtship with Amanda, but his mother had--she'd been a linguist at the Embassy, and in fine weather they'd often worked out here. Perhaps they'd even sat on the bench he was sitting on now--and perhaps, when things were better, the younger Spock would sit here with Nyota. Once he'd dealt with his own loss, and begun his own healing. Only then could he begin to move on with the rest of them.

And so Spock was not surprised to see, at the far edge of the garden, a tall silhouette, standing alone and thoughtful beside a reddish Vulcan cactus. He stood, and made his deliberate way along the fresh-raked gravel paths, until he drew up beside his younger self.

"I had thought I might find you here," he said, forgoing any formal greeting, "sooner or later. I often come here myself in the morning. It is…easier to find tranquility here than in any other place on Earth."

The younger Spock bowed his head, and for a long moment said nothing. Then, softly, barely audibly, "I appear to have lost tranquility, and I…cannot find it again."

Spock looked at him with what was undeniably compassion. "I know," he said, causing his younger self to look at him. "You have immersed yourself in others' sorrows to the neglect of your own. I would have done the same at your age, believing illogical humans incapable of sorting out affairs without the aid of one who retains detachment. You, however, _have _no detachment." He sighed. "None of us do now, not even T'Pau. I do not think even a _kholinaru _could regard the destruction of our planet with complete equanimity. No sentient being could."

To this his younger self said nothing--most likely because all Spock said was true. Instead he gazed out at the blue-grey waters of the bay, which were swiftly growing choppy as the wind woke.

"Control of emotion is a valuable thing," Spock went on quietly, "but there are times it is a liability rather than a help, and this is one of them." He paused--this was as difficult for him to say as it would be for his counterpart to hear. "Vulcans have long disdained the act of weeping, but to humans the shedding of tears is a necessary and valuable part of grieving. I would suggest you consider their merit."

Now his younger self stared at him, almost appalled. "_Cry_?" he said, clearly astounded his older self would mention such a thing.

"We are both half human, Spock," Spock said, almost gently. "But even a true Vulcan will weep, given sufficient cause." He paused again. "Our father did, in my time, when he lost our mother. He is, as you will not yet have discovered, capable of very deep emotion, as are all our race. I would be surprised indeed if others have not taken refuge in tears already."

Now the younger Spock was openly gaping at him--a Vulcan gape, but a gape nonetheless. He opened his mouth to issue denial, but paused himself. "Father…told me he married Mother because he loved her." That had clearly got him thinking. "You…truly suggest I should cry?"

Spock nodded. "I do. I have lost many friends, and I have seen that, paradoxical though it is, the human way of grieving is in some ways more logical than our own. I think perhaps it is because they have much more practice at it than we; their lifespan means they will lose their loved ones far sooner and more often than Vulcans. They do not only acknowledge the pain of loss, they embrace it, and in allowing it release recover in their minds far more swiftly than a Vulcan. And we have lost more than any human in the history of their world, and in ours."

He turned to face his counterpart, reading easily the younger Spock's troubled expression. "And I would suggest one more thing," he said. "Do not hide your grief from Nyota. Human instinct is to share it--they take solace in one another, and if your Nyota is anything like mine she will want to help you. Do not deny her that opportunity, because I believe she _can _help you if you allow it. Do not think it weakness to show your grief to her--you are bonded now, and even bonded Vulcans by necessity share one another's sense of loss. Do not shut her out."

His gaze turned back to the bay. "And…speak to our father, when you feel you can. He shares your very personal loss, and he will appreciate you doing so even if he will never admit it to you."

"Did you--speak to him, when Mother died in your time?" the younger Spock asked, curious.

"I did. It was one of the few times in my life we truly shared anything." He had also bitterly opposed Sarek's remarriage to Perrin, but no need to mention that. Now was not then, and this young Spock was not facing the same future. Let what would come, come later, without his interference. "Please, walk with me."

He led his younger self along the sandstone terrace, the sea-breeze cool in spite of the day's heat. There were several inconspicuous entrances to the Embassy itself, and he made use of one now, leading the young Spock to his quarters within it. T'Pau, he was certain, was the one who had made sure no one questioned his presence, nor even asked his name--what explanation she might have given, he couldn't guess, and he was hardly about to ask. Old though he was, T'Pau was…T'Pau. One did not question her.

His quarters were simple, and mostly Vulcan, though there were a few Terran touches here and there, including a very old copy of _Treasure Island _much like the one given him by Kirk in his timeline--it had been some time before his Kirk had offered any explanation, and when he had Spock had not fully understood. What he did understand was that it had great significance to Kirk, because of why he had acquired it--he had been reminded of it by a young man shortly before every single person within Starfleet Headquarters was killed by a Romulan virus. Everyone but Kirk himself, who had been trapped for several days in the sealed bunker in the bowels of HQ, the twisted, blackened face of that young officer a fixed image on one of the monitors--his head rested on the copy of _Treasure Island _he had bought for his little brother. Kirk's meeting with that officer had reminded him of his youth, less than an hour before he faced the very real possibility of death, and the memory of that young man had stamped itself into his consciousness for the rest of his life.

Spock had acquired the book now because it reminded him of Jim, and of that covert mission to the hellish depths of a failed Romulan colony--birthplace of his protégé, Saavik, the closest thing to a daughter he was ever to have in his reality. Hopefully this Spock would have children of his own--and hopefully he would have cause to find that colony, and Saavik. In this reality there might well be no Vulcan ships to go missing, to be captured by the Romulans and give Vulcans reason to cross the Neutral Zone. That, he realized, was a terrible thought--had the Vulcans of his time not found the colony, all those children would have died. But then, without the captured Vulcans, the colony would never exist--Saavik would never exist. And that was yet another thing for him to mourn.

Him, but not his younger self, who had lost so much already. Whatever the young Spock might lose in the future was just that--in the future. Spock could offer few warnings, though one thing he _should _warn about was the space probe that would likely still come in this reality. They ought to do something about that before then, since if this young Spock did not die, the circumstances that allowed them to go back in time to save Earth would not come about. In that at least he could offer counsel.

He bade young Spock to sit on the low russet couch in front of his meditation table, and took several small jars from a cabinet beside the firepot. The things in that cupboard seemed to be a standard inclusion in all the Vulcan guest quarters within the Embassy, a thing he found rather curious, given what some of them _were._ One of them, m'res, was a dried herb found only on Vulcan, and usually only used by Vulcans a little more unconventional in their methods of emotional control--or, in this instance, relaxation of that control. Spock knew that, logic and advice aside, his younger self would have a very difficult time relinquishing so much control as to allow himself tears. He, like his older counterpart, would have learned the hard way as a child how deeply frowned upon tears were by Vulcans. It had been so ingrained in the elder Spock himself that it had been well over a century before he had allowed himself to overcome it without aid--a thing no one, not even his father, knew. He had first cried after his Uhurua died--very little, in utmost privacy, but he had. And in doing so found a type of release and peace that were uniquely human.

He dropped a pinch of the herb into the firepot, letting the smoke waft through the room--it was sharp and clear, smelling like the desert after a brief torrential rain. Few outside of Vulcan had had any idea that the entire planet was not a dry, baking desert--that much of the very northern and southern poles were actually fairly wet, by Vulcan standards. Which was, Spock thought, a little ridiculous--without sufficient vegetation, the planet would have had no breathable atmosphere. But few outside of Vulcan actually knew very much about the planet at all--its people had seen to that.

He watched his younger self sniff the air, one eyebrow rising as he realized what it was. "M'res?" he questioned, as Spock sat on a low wickerwork chair, facing him.

"I thought you mind find it useful," Spock said, and took in his younger self's slightly appalled expression when young Spock realized what he was doing.

"I realize you would not wish to attempt this in the presence of another," Spock said, "but you are, after all, only in the company of yourself."

That got another eyebrow, as his younger self silently conceded the point.

"Do not attempt to force your emotions," Spock went on. "Do not attempt to force anything. Simply clear your mind and then allow thoughts to enter at will, without controlling or directing them. I realize this goes against a lifetime of training, but it _is _possible." He knew quite well that, stripped of control, Vulcans were quite capable of tears--he himself had wept, when the influence of the psi 2000 polywater had contaminated the whole ship and sent many of them half-mad. To this day he couldn't hear the song 'Kathleen' without an inward wince. Thank you, Lieutenant Riley. He did not wish his younger self to lose control to that extent, but neither did he wish him to cling to it.

"_You _have--done this?" He wasn't imagining the faint note of incredulity in young Spock's voice.

"I have," he affirmed. "I can speak to its efficiency."

Silence fell, while the smoke drifted through the dim room, and Spock himself cleared his mind in light meditation, to give his younger self time and to keep any of his own emotions from influencing young Spock's. He had already purged the worst of his grief thus; he would not let go as he wished his younger self to. He could act as a guide, rather than a companion in suffering.

It took one hour and four point nineteen seconds for the herb to do its work, and Spock only knew that because of the sudden tidal-wave of grief that slammed against his senses. Outwardly his younger self betrayed no change ,but the internal agony young Spock had so carefully repressed burst forth like water from a breeched dam. He didn't open his eyes--didn't move--didn't even twitch--but the force of his pain seemed all the greater for his stillness. Without that repression he was lost, bewildered, agonized--and alone. Horribly alone, a loneliness Spock knew all too well. Little in the universe could isolate a being like grief, and this was grief so deep his young self was almost drowning in it. He didn't need a meld to feel it, but a meld was possibly the only thing that might guide it.

He stood, and when he did the younger Spock opened his eyes--dark eyes fathoms-deep with pain. Without a word Spock sat on the table in front of him, and laid one hand on the side of his face.

_The sheer terrible force of hurt was like slamming headlong into a wall, a shock to rival anything he had ever before experienced. Gone was any organization of his counterpart's thoughts; they had torn free of their moorings and left them both adrift._

"_I watched her fall. I reached for her but I didn't catch her, and she…screamed. Vulcan was falling to pieces all around me and all I could hear was her scream. It was so…so _sudden._" And with those words came images, images that rocked Spock to the very core of his mind--Amanda, eyes huge in a face white with terror, a fraction of a second before the ledge gave way beneath her._

"_I couldn't save her. I couldn't save anyone who died when we fled, but _she _was the one who fell right in front of me, and if I'd just been faster--"_

"_You would have fallen, too," Spock said, for in that memory he could see things his younger counterpart was still too blinded with grief to realize. "You would have fallen, and Jim could not have defeated Nero on his own. You would have died, and with you Earth, and then the entirety of the Federation. A human would say you were fated to survive."_

"_Do you _believe _in Fate?" He could sense young Spock's sheer surprised._

"_I did not, but recent events have made me question that skepticism. That you all came together on the Enterprise in spite of Nero--_because _of Nero--has made me more…open to the idea…than I once was. I would tell you there is no logic in dwelling onw hat youf ailed to do, but there is little place for logic in such deep mourning. You must…I believe the Terran expression is 'roll with it'."_

"_What does that mean?"_

"_I am not entirely certain," he admitted. "Like all human metaphors it is most imprecise. I believe it means you must not battle your circumstances. A difficult thing for a Vulcan." Though not insurmountable. He was proof of that._

_He could feel his younger self considering this even while the tides of pain and loss still roared. It was a tiny thing to cling to, a tiny, desperate idea like a lifeline, that kept young Spock from being swept away entirely._

"_Let go," he said, again almost gently. "Let go--things will not be so painful when you return."_

_And, finally, his younger self did._

-----

Whew, that was a difficult one to write--keeping Vulcans _Vulcan _while they're dealing with such massive trauma is a bit of a chore, especially since there's not a lot of canon to go by there. Spock's total breakdown in the TOS episode The Naked Time and Sarek's issues in the TNG ep Sarek are about all I had to go buy, and I hope I balanced that line okay.

Anyway, I do recommend the Pandora Principle (which I actually found out about on TVTropes, of all places--the description I read got me interested) as well as the other I've read, which I also heard about there. It's called Before Dishonor, and all I will say about _that _one is that the Borg **eat Pluto.** And it is _awesome_. It's got a billion and one characters from several different series in there, too.

Next up is Uhura therapy with McCoy, and then I think we're moving on to the trial of the surviving Romulans--I might even do an Onen POV, because I've really enjoyed writing from the Romulan perspective and I want to do it again. I definitely won't leave such a long gap between updates again, but I'm also working on Until It Sleeps and at the moment have both my kids home sick (I hope not with the flu), so I don't know that I'll manage to get back to my old, somewhat insane level of productivity. But I promise not to leave you all hanging that long again, and a big thank-you to everyone who's stuck with me so far. :)


	23. Part XXIII: McCoy

A/N: As promised Uhura therapy time, complete with a few theories of McCoy's about Nero, his _katra_, and a few other goodies.

----

Very privately, McCoy was wondering if he could handle this.

Spock had spoken to him the day before, asking if he would, as a human, doctor, and brother-officer, see if he could help Uhura. McCoy had full psychological training in addition to his general MD; that, in addition to the other qualifiers Spock had listed, made him, quite ironically, a logical candidate. Prior experience had proved him a good therapist, but he'd never tried to be so for a friend--and, briefly though he'd known Uhura, he considered her a friend.

Not only that, he'd seen firsthand the results of what that bastard Nero had done to her, and he wondered whether or not he could maintain enough distance to properly be effective--if it wouldn't disturb him too much to be of any use. And if Uhura would be willing to open up to him at all. What she'd gone through was one of the most horrible things that could happen to a human being, but if Spock thought she'd talk about it he must have a reason.

Mutual consultation had decided this best be conducted in her and Spock's quarters, since it was possibly the only place left on Earth she felt truly safe--safe and invulnerable. Apparently she'd agreed to the whole thing, which he hoped was a good sign. He just also hoped she wouldn't get cold feet and clamp up on him and wind up worse off than before.

Spock was out, of course--that had been part of the arrangement. Figuring--rightly, as it turned out--that they'd still have plenty of wedding bourbon left, McCoy forwent his usual calling present, instead showing up with an old-fashioned sweet-potato pie. (The fact that he could cook was one no one, especially Jim, was ever, ever going to find out.)

Uhura seemed relaxed enough when she answered the door--she was wearing one of her seemingly innumerable black button-down shirts and jeans, her hair loose and her face wholly free of make-up. The strain had largely left her features, and he hoped like hell this informal therapy session wasn't going to bring it back. It was likely to dredge up whatever she hadn't yet dealt with, after all--but there was a reason she was in Starfleet. Nobody who wasn't strong lasted very long.

"Hi," she said, standing aside to let him in. her and Spock's quarters were, as always, military-tidy, but a sense of _family _pervaded them in spite of that almost obsessive neatness. Sunshine flooded through the east window, which was open, for once, letting in the cool morning air.

"Hi," he returned, and held up the pie. "I know people don't usually have dessert after breakfast, but it's my mother's recipe. Though for the love of God don't tell Jim I made it, or I'll never hear the end of it."

To his surprise, that made her laugh--a genuine laugh, the kind of merry laugh she'd had before this mess. "I won't," she said, shutting the door and gesturing him to sit in one of the overstuffed armchairs near the window, first relieving him of the pie. There was just a hint of nervousness in her movements, but that was only to be expected, and her hands were not quite steady when she produced two plates and cut up the pie.

"Before we even get started here, don't you think you have to tell me anything you don't want to," he said, taking the plate she passed to him. "That's not why I'm here. And I don't think I have to tell you that whatever you _do _say goes no further than this room. Doctor-patient confidentiality and all that."

Uhura smiled again, much less humorously this time. "I know," she said softly. "I just…I'm not sure what you'll think of me, if I say too much." She sat in the other chair and hugged her knees like a little girl.

Spock had given him some hints she might feel that way, though he'd given no details--but he didn't have to.

"Do you want me to tell you what _I _saw first?" he asked gently.

She nodded, a little uncertainly.

"I saw a survivor. You went through hell and got out alive--got _yourself _out. _Saved _yourself. You got out and got your revenge, and from what little Spock said you've been healing ever since. You used your strength however you could., and I think whatever you did was what you had to do to survive. To not just be some kind of martyr."

Her eyes widened a little at that assessment of herself. "There's so much more than you know, though," she whispered, looking away. "More than even Spock knows. And it's so horrible it scares me, because--it has to mean I'm not what you think I am." She'd gone as pale as her dark skin would let her, pale and sick with what was unmistakably shame. It hurt him, and pissed him off, that Nero could have done that to her. Nobody deserved that.

"You know you couldn't have fought him," he said, more gently still. "You _know _that. He could've killed you, and you know that, too."

"He would have killed Spock," she said, burying her face on her knees. "I thought--if he was distracted with…with me, he'd leave everyone else alone. And I tried to kill him once and failed, and then--"

She broke off, not looking up, but she didn't have to finish that sentence for McCoy to know what 'and then' meant. He was only amazed Nero hadn't killed her outright for it.

"Is that why you had the bruises around your throat?" he asked, carefully tamping down his anger. Nero was dead; that anger would serve no one any purpose now.

She nodded, still not looking up. "I thought he was going to kill me, and I wished he _would_, except I knew if he did he'd go kill Spock, too--kill _all _of you."

It all came out then, a torrent of words only a little muffled by her knees--a flood he knew much better than to interrupt. What had happened when she and Spock had been dragged off, and then everything that had happened after, all those not-quite-three days, and in listening McCoy grew more and more appalled--not at her, but at the sheer depth of hell she'd gone through. He'd had no idea it was _that _bad, and he marveled more than a little that she'd come out of it with her sanity intact.

And she went on, telling him things nobody but Spock knew, as though trying to purge everything at one go. She told him about Nero's _katra_, the continuing hell he'd put her through inside her own _head_, and _that_, McCoy thought, was where the true source of her shame lay. She was ashamed she'd pitied Nero, ashamed the hadn't been revolted when he'd touched her, that she'd _let _him. That it hurt her when he stopped.

Finally, finally, after a good half-hour, she fell silent, and looked up at him with naked fear of judgment in her dark eyes. And for once in his life McCoy was utterly lost for words--where did he even begin to respond to that, to offer the kind of massive reassurance she so badly needed?

"Say something," she whispered, when the silence stretched between them.

He didn't--instead he moved, pulling her to her feet, and hugged her for all she was worth. After a moment she hugged him back, still shivering from all that horrible recollection. He wasn't hugging her as a doctor or a brother or a friend--it was the simple embrace of one human for another, for a human who had been put through horrors no being should ever, ever have to face. Had he been in her position, he'd have come out of it a raging lunatic, if he'd survived at all, and he had an inward shudder at the thought of what might have happened to her if she hadn't had Spock.

"Nobody with more than three brain cells would ever judge you for that," he said, when he finally released her and sat down again. "Do you know what Stockholm Syndrome is?"

She nodded. She still hadn't cried, but that was not, when he thought about it, surprising. Some things ran too deep for tears.

"I don't think that's entirely what happened in your face, but I think it's a big part of it. You can hate someone and still understand them--why they are what they are. Your mind did what it had to do to protect itself, to keep you _sane_. Don't ever be ashamed you and it did what it took to survive."

"I shouldn't feel sorry for him," Uhura said, still in a whisper, but a much more savage whisper now. "I should have been revolted by him and nothing more."

"Do you know anything about the actual history of Stockholm Syndrome?" McCoy asked, finally picking up his pie, though he made no move to eat it. When she shook her head, he went on, "It comes from a bank hold-up in the twentieth century. The criminals held hostages who later defended them, and refused to testify against them in their trial. A more extreme example would be Patty Hearst, who was kidnapped by a group of terrorists and wound up joining them. It's not uncommon at all--especially when the captor isn't always cruel to their prisoners. It's not like prison--in prison there's a group, other people you can have solidarity with. You were alone, and from the sound of it--especially at the last--Nero wasn't completely cruel to you. He twisted your mind around without even knowing what he was doing, I'll bet." Nero had been crazy enough that McCoy could easily believe, as Uhura had said T'Pau told her, that he'd loved her in some deeply screwed-up way.

Uhura shook her head. "No, he wasn't always cruel. I hated him--I still hate him--but…I think I saw a little of what he used to be. And I felt sorry for him." She paused. "I still do."

Finally McCoy did take a bite of his pie. "Has it occurred to you that, if Nero had enough Vulcan left in him to be able to pass on his _katra_, he might have been shoving some of his emotion on you without realizing he was doing it?" He was a little surprised that hadn't (apparently) occurred to Spock before now, but Spock had plenty of Issues of his own to be getting on with.

Her eyebrows shot up--clearly it hadn't. "You think that's possible?"

"Why shouldn't it be? The Romulans only broke off from Vulcan two thousand years ago. Just because they lost the ability to control it doesn't mean they lost the ability itself. Near as I can tell the telepathy seems to be built into Vulcans on a genetic level, and it hasn't been long enough for the Romulans to have mutated into a completely separate species. That'd take a hell of a lot longer than a couple millennia."

She was silent a moment, clearly digesting that. McCoy wasn't just saying it--it really _was _possible, and, what was more, it was probable. If Nero could pass on his _katra_, it was more likely than not he could do the rest of It, whether he knew it or not. Hell, if he'd retained enough natural Vulcan ability, it might even explain why he was so much more insane than the rest of his crew--Vulcans could be pretty sensitive to other beings' emotions, which was part of why some of them had a hard time being around humans. If Nero had been barraged with everyone else's grief as well as his own, it wouldn't be any wonder he'd been so crazy.

"That…I never thought of that," she said at last. "I wondered why his pain hurt me so much--it didn't make any _sense_, that I could hate him so much but still be hurt by all that agony."

"It's a good bet that the hate was yours," McCoy said quietly, "but the pain was his. You just caught it, too, like some kind've disease. You were under so much stress yourself I doubt you could've blocked it even if you knew how."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "And don't think there's any such thing as taking too much time to get over this. Your brain knows what it's doing, even if you don't. Being a prisoner'll mess anyone up for a while, and you weren't just a prisoner, you went through one of the worst things that could ever happen to anybody. It'll be frustrating, but don't try to force yourself to do or think anything you're not ready to yet. I know 'it takes time' is a damn platitude, but it's also true. And just remember you've got Spock, and all of us--you're not alone."

"I know," she said softly. "I don't know what I would have done, if I had been."

Probably have lost her mind entirely, he thought, but of course did not say.

She looked away, and when she spoke again it was very hesitantly. "Do you think--is that maybe why…"

"Maybe why you didn't hate it?" he volunteered, knowing she'd know what he meant. "I'd say so. It, combined with whatever the hell drug he fed you--who knows how long it could have stayed in your system?" It was a wonder it hadn't poisoned her, considering it couldn't possibly have been originally concocted for a human.

She sighed, and shut her eyes. "It's not the _worst _thing, but I also…I don't know how much everyone's guessed about what happened on that ship, but I hate that they could at all. I don't want anyone's _pity _any more than I'd want their condemnation."

McCoy didn't realize he was echoing Spock's sentiments when he said, "Honestly? I don't think anyone would dare. You don't know how--how _scary _you looked when you killed Nero. That wasn't the work of a victim, and you sure haven't been one since. Whatever people might guess, they _saw _you pay it back." And how. "I don't think you realize just what kind've heroine you are on the Enterprise. As Jim would say, you kicked ass. Nobody had to go rescue you." Spock had been right in that, too--that she needed the chance to save herself, if only to prove to herself that she _could_. Uhura was nobody's damsel in distress--she'd proved _that _to…well, everyone.

"Is that part of why you've been keeping to yourself so much?" he asked. "Because you don't want people who've got some idea seeing you?"

Uhura nodded.

"I don't think you need to worry on that score. Anybody who thinks of it'll probably just remember you spearing Nero like some ancient warrior. Trust me." He himself did, when he saw her--he didn't think of the injuries he'd treated her for on the Enterprise, he thought of that savage war-cry she'd let out when she killed Nero. He thought of the strength, not the vulnerability, and he was pretty damn sure everyone else would, too. "Don't be afraid to take your life back on account of other people. They don't matter, but if y'are worried about it you've got no reason to be. The last thing anybody'll do is feel sorry for you."

That made her smile a little--just a little, but a smile nonetheless. "Maybe I'll actually try to handle graduation, if it's even still happening on time."

"Last I heard, it was." How they were going to juggle that with the upcoming trial of the Romulans, he didn't know, but they had to. He and Spock and Jim had all promised to testify, and a lot of the others were considering it, Chekov among them. McCoy didn't care about most of them, but Onen haunted him--Onen with her dark, dead eyes, all alone, her former allies now her enemies. Like Jim, he'd realized how hard a decision she'd made, and he wondered what was to become of her--what was to become of _all _of them. Nobody knew yet if Romulus would want to extradite them, but it wasn't likely the Federation would allow it if they did. He just hoped the Romulan government would be smart enough to leave well enough alone--Nero and his crew had effectively been a world unto themselves, after all. Most likely the survivors would wind up imprisoned for life, but Onen didn't deserve that. She didn't think so, either, but unlike McCoy she thought she ought to be executed. Romulus, he thought, must be a damned unpleasant world, if the mindset of the Narada's crew was anything to go by. Maybe he ought to try to talk to her again, too, for all the good it was likely to do, or--

Or.

Could he ask it? Could she _do _it? Hell, he had to try. "I wonder," he said slowly, "do you think you might be able to face Onen, before she goes to trial? To talk to her?" He knew the enormity of what he was asking, but who knew--it might do Uhura some good as well.

She blinked, startled. "Onen…she was one of the ones who let us out, wasn't she?"

McCoy nodded. "She wants to die," he said. "She thinks she _deserves _to die--deserves it for doing what she thought was _right_. Damn Romulans are all insane, if you ask me. I think she might be the only one've the ones who helped us who survived, and…hell, she deserves better. If she could only _see _it."

Uhura considered that so long he began to regret asking. Then, "I…think I would like to talk to her. For a few reasons."

McCoy let out a silent breath, relieved. "I think she might be more open with you," he said. Because Uhura was a woman, and because she'd suffered more than the rest of the Enterprise crew on the Narada. And if they didn't try all they could, Onen's eyes might haunt him the rest of his life.

"Spock said he would testify at the trial," Uhura said, finally picking up her pie. "I…can't, but I can talk to Onen. In her way she's gone through even worse than me."

That she had, he thought. Put that way, he didn't wonder so much why she wanted to die. Still, he couldn't let her go down without a fight. Something in him just wouldn't let him.

"I--well, I appreciate it," he said. He had no idea why he appreciated it so _much_, but he did. "Meanwhile, Scotty's itching to get you and Spock back to his pub. Let me know if you want me to tell him to, as he'd put it, go and boil his head."

Wonder of wonders, that got another smile. "I don't know how much Spock would like the idea, but I think I'd like to. I need to get out of these rooms more."

Privately, he agreed with her. "And you know if you ever need to talk more, you don't need a standing invitation--just call me. Me, or Nurse Chapel, if you ever feel like you'd rather talk to another woman about anything."

"Does she--?" Uhura said, alarmed.

"No. But she'd keep anything you told her as close as I will, and I know she'd think the same about it all as I do."

Uhura shook her head. "You guys--all of you--I don't think you know how much I appreciate you all. How much Spock and I both do."

McCoy thought maybe he did understand, at least mostly. They'd all been like that for one another in the last weeks, the surviving crew of the Enterprise. Nobody who hadn't been there could possibly understand, no matter how much it might be explained to them. It was, he knew, a type of bond often shared by POW's, or any group of people who had gone through horrible things together. Whatever terrible thing might have happened to them, it brought them together in solidarity with one another.

"Well," he said. "Let's eat this pie already and then maybe go for a walk. Day looks like it'll be too beautiful to waste."

----

Nero's potential residual telepathy occurred to me while I was washing dishes the other day. It always vaguely bothered me that the Romulans in canon seem to have lost all telepathic ability when they're still genetically Vulcan, and I figure there must be some kind of holdover in _some _of them. (As for _Pon Farr_, my husband had an interesting--and amusing--theory. He thinks it's possible _Pon Farr _is so extreme for Vulcans because they repress the hell out of all their emotions, so it only gets let out once every seven years, but Romulans, who don't seem to repress much of anything, are in it _all the time_. It's just less extreme because it's spread out and not all concentrated down like it is with Vulcans. It would certainly explain why so many of the Romulans we see throughout Trek canon are so pissed off all the time.)

Anyway, as always, thank you to all my reviewers. Next up, I think, is Uhura and Onen. :)


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